


Classified(s)

by blueink3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Americanisms, Escort Service, Extended Family, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Like Seriously Everyone is a Moron, M/M, Mary is a bitch, Pining, The Wedding Date AU, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:26:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara's American father is the ambassador to some such territory that Great Britain probably used to own, but she (and Harry’s undying love for her) is the reason John is getting on a flight at 12:30pm, flying across the second largest ocean in the world, and pretending to be in a perfectly happy, healthy relationship with an undoubtedly perfectly coiffed stranger.</p><p>See, Clara is not only American (and wealthy to boot), she's also best friends with John’s ex-fiancee. Whom she's placed in the wedding party. As Maid of Honor.</p><p>And John just happens to be Best Man.</p><p>Bloody brilliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Wedding Date AU, the bad yet terribly endearing film starring Debra Messing and Dermot Mulroney. You do not need to have seen it to understand anything that's happening.

  
_Mr. and Mrs. Elliot Collins_  
_request the honour of your presence_  
_at the marriage of their daughter_  
_Clara Elizabeth Collins_  
_to_  
_Harriet Jean Watson_  
_on Saturday, the twenty-third of May_  
_at three o’clock_  
_St. Peter’s Parish Church_

John stares at the invitation like the indicted stares down a noose.  

His sister was getting married - in America of all places - and John was in need of a date. Which is why, next to the delicately embossed invite lies a business card printed on only slightly less posh cardstock.

 **The Science of Deduction**  
**[sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk](mailto:sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk) **

The number on the back is one he dialed seven days ago, only after repeated, merciless hounding from (his supposed friend) Mike. If this goes south, like it inevitably must, Mike is paying his bar tab for a year. And John is only ordering 12-year-old single malt scotch.

_Christ._

He rubs his forehead as he stares at the plane ticket resting on the kitchen table: one of a pair of non-refundable, non-stop tickets from Heathrow to Dulles International Airport. Washington DC is the final destination because Clara (though English) was raised in America. Her American father is the ambassador to some such territory that Great Britain probably used to own, but she (and Harry’s undying love for her) is the reason John is getting on a flight at 12:30pm, flying across the second largest ocean in the world, and pretending to be in a perfectly happy, healthy relationship with an undoubtedly perfectly coiffed stranger.

See, Clara is not only half-American (and wealthy to boot), she’s also best friends with John’s ex-fiancee. Whom she’s placed in the wedding party. As Maid of Honor.

And John just happens to be Best Man.

Bloody brilliant.

John has never been to the Chesapeake before in his life, but his parents had passed and Clara had the bigger family. With two brides, it made sense to let them host. Of course, that doesn't mean that the festivities will be lacking in Watsons. He has a particularly nosy great aunt that likes to insinuate herself into everyone's business but her own. She means well, but... she's a handful. And she's been torturing poor Harry in America since Saturday. It is now Wednesday. 

He eyes the vodka in his liquor cabinet and wonders if it’s too early for a Bloody Mary.

 _You can do this,_  he thinks as he presses speakerphone on his mobile’s inbox for the fourth time in a row, letting that sinful voice fill his less-than-spacious kitchen.

 _“Hello, John. This is Sherlock Holmes. I got your message. As well as the three missed calls you placed before you actually bucked up the courage to leave a voicemail. I assure you, everything is arranged. Do relax.”_ A pause. _“This is what I get paid for. I’ll meet you directly at Heathrow, Terminal three, Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse. Oh and do try to remember your passport. The Americans are finicky about border control.”_

John allows his smile to linger for a moment longer than it probably should before anxiety gets the better of him and he glances at his watch to find that he should have been dressed ten minutes ago. “Bollocks!”

His shower is military quick and his packing is slapdash, yet efficient. Twenty minutes later finds him flying out of his small bedsit and into a cab, hurtling towards Heathrow with an ever-growing knot in the pit of his stomach. His duffle has been dropped on the seat next to him (his morning suit already secure in Maryland under the watchful eye of Aunt Adelaide) and he digs into the outside pocket to ensure (for the fifth time) that his passport is in fact there. He pulls it out and breathes easier, at least until something else caught between the pages drops into his lap.

It's a photo booth strip of him and Mary from last year's county fair and their smiling faces stare up at him, reminding him (rather pointedly) of just how happy he used to be. He stares at the pictures, vividly remembering the smell of popcorn and the roar of the rollercoaster...

_"C'mon, John, it'll be fun! Now smile - ah, no!"_

He had mocked glared in the first, smiled sarcastically in the second, sneak attacked her with a kiss in the third, and smiled genuinely in the fourth.

He contemplates ripping up the strip and letting the pieces flutter out the window, before swallowing hard and tucking them in between the pages of his passport once more. He can deal with that another time. For now, he'll just focus on making it to the swanky Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse in one piece.

After all, Sherlock made it quite clear he doesn’t fly coach.

xxxxxx

Sherlock offers a tight, practiced smile for the woman behind the counter as he relinquishes his Burberry suitcase and watches with no small amount of trepidation as it disappears down the conveyor belt and into the depths of the airport's underbelly where he hopes it miraculously manages to make its way onto the right plane. 

The security line is scant on a Wednesday morning and Sherlock breezes up to the metal detector, eyes narrowing at the wrinkles the less-than-careful agent is inflicting upon his suit jacket. He eventually makes it through the wanding relatively unscathed – his bespoke Alexander McQueen less so, though.

As he strides through the terminal, he goes through John’s file in his mind palace. Thirty-five, once engaged, twin sister (Harriet) betrothed to one Clara Elizabeth Collins. Ex is one Mary Morstan, best friend of the bride and Maid of Honor. She broke it off with no reasonable explanation. John mourned the loss of the relationship for a sufficient amount of time (more so than strictly necessary, Sherlock thinks) yet John’s true feelings on the matter now remain… unclear.

The repeated calls had been annoying but then his voicemail had been oddly endearing. John Watson’s anxiety was palpable, even through the ether, and though Sherlock puts the word “picky” to shame when choosing his clients, John seemed… decent. Desperate, but decent. A far cry from his usual. 

His photo didn’t hurt either.

Speaking of – Sherlock scans the Clubhouse, already knowing he’ll likely find his charge by the bar and, sure enough, there John is, nursing a complimentary glass of champagne as he watches some poor sod get trounced in the French Open semis-finals. 

Sherlock smirks, accepts his own glass of champagne from a passing server, and strides over, knowing that an introduction – no matter how fabricated – is paramount to a relationship.

“Hello, darling,” he murmurs and John does nothing to help their cover by jumping so badly, he nearly upends himself from his stool. Sherlock makes up for it by leaning in and brushing his lips across John’s cheek. “Sorry I’m late.” His skin is smooth and his aftershave smells like the calm before a storm.

“It’s fine,” John manages, “love.”

Sherlock smirks and narrows his eyes slightly as John blushes at his rather lame attempt.

"You made it," the man says with a bit more confidence as he wraps his arm around Sherlock's waist and tugs him in close. "That's all that matters." 

 _Touche. Fast learner._  Sherlock's mouth quirks as he takes a sip of his champagne and nods at John to do the same. Unlike Sherlock's rather delicate imbibing, John downs half of it in one go. 

“Nervous flyer?” he asks, though for a former Army doctor, of course the answer is no.

John chuckles, knowing that Sherlock is not referring to the journey, but rather the destination. “Something like that.” His eyes roam in a quick up and down that is subtle yet not quite subtle enough. Sherlock is secretly pleased.

"Relax," he murmurs as he slides into the seat beside him and places a sturdy hand on John's thigh. It flexes beneath his palm.

John obviously finds him attractive and Sherlock reciprocates (in his own way) which will make this whole endeavor significantly more bearable.  

“So…” John trails off and Sherlock lets him squirm for a moment before sighing into his flute with a not-entirely-fabricated smirk. 

“We really must practice our small talk,” he murmurs. “Darling,” he adds as an afterthought and John blushes scarlet.

Sherlock pretends it’s not charming.

xxxxxx

John is so bloody fucked.

He knew this was an insane plan and that was beforea sodding  _Adonis_ dropped onto the seat next to his and kissed him on the cheek.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

It’s all well and good, actually, for Mission: Look-Good-In-Front-Of-Mary but  _fuck._

The Science of Deduction did not have a picture on its site and why the hell not when its admin looks like  _that_?His voice alone was sinful enough, but Sherlock Holmes is six feet of alabaster glory and John is having a lot of trouble maintaining his composure. 

He takes another gulp of champagne and briefly watches Andy Murray bollocks up Match Point. 

Sherlock clears his throat and scoots his stool a shade closer, close enough that John can smell his cologne. It's delicious. 

“Shall we go over rules?” the taller man asks quietly and John turns to him, well aware that his hand is still firm on his thigh. 

“Rules?”

"For this," Sherlock clarifies. "Us." 

"Ah, right, um, yes. Please."  _Wonderful, Watson._  

Sherlock gives him a knowing look and John wants nothing more than to melt into a puddle beneath the bar. 

"We've discussed price – "

"Right," John blurts, reaching into the bag at his feet and pulling out a thick envelope. "I didn't want to check it in my suitcase." He flops it down on the bar and Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard as he quickly pulls it into his lap, John’s surprised he didn’t do himself an injury. "You can count it." 

"I trust you," that deep voice rumbles.

 _What, already?_ John thinks a little hysterically. That's not... usual. Then again, nothing about this is.

"Everything is fair game," the taller man begins perfunctorily. "Touching, endearments, and the like. But if we are to be intimate, I am to be paid in advance."

“That – that won’t be necessary,” John stammers. “I don’t pay for sex.”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and slides the envelope of cash into his breast pocket. "Just wedding dates, then." 

A wave of mortification crests over John’s face. “I am so sorry.”  _Idiot, idiot, idiot._

Sherlock flicks his hand as if batting the issue away and  _now_ John wants nothing more than to crawl under the bar and die. Could he screw this up any more?

“John, I believe you’ll find I’m not easily offended, which usually bodes well for family gatherings, especially when said extended family includes three homophobes, two racists, and an accountant."

“What? An accountant – ?” John starts to ask, but then Sherlock’s lips are pressed to his, thoroughly and effectively stealing every inane thought he might have had in his head.

His lips are soft and those long fingers come up to slide through John’s hair, carefully cupping his jaw in his large hand. The kiss is relatively chaste; perhaps a bit more lingering than one would engage in in public, but there are no tongues. No gasps. It’s not snogging – just a press and a hold to quiet the world. As if to say, ‘Relax. Breathe. I’m here to help.’

_"This a boarding call for Virgin Atlantic Flight 21 en route to Washington Dulles International Airport…"_

“I believe that’s our cue,” Sherlock murmurs, pulling away and offering a quick squeeze to his thigh once more. 

John blinks and tries to remember how to breathe as the man flashes him an entirely too smug smile, slides off his stool, and holds his hand out.

John takes it numbly, noticing how his fingers automatically slide between Sherlock’s and bends down to grab his small bag and slide it over his shoulder.

“Have a safe flight,” someone in the Clubhouse tells him and he thinks he nods in thanks as he’s led out into the terminal.

He’s still not sure if this is the best or worst idea he’s ever had.

They are seated in the Upper Class suite and Sherlock watches with no shortage of amusement as John tries to keep his jaw from dropping to the floor. Their lounges are across from one another (and they are lounges, not seats, make no mistake) and Sherlock gestures toward the one on the right. 

"Window?" 

"You sure?" John asks and Sherlock shrugs indifferently.

"It's a view I've seen before." 

“Thanks,” John replies. He’s been to America one other time in his life, but he doesn’t think he’ll get tired of watching one continent disappear as he flies toward another.

The cabin is doused in dark orange light, reminiscent of a sunset, and John drops his bag by his feet as he sits and promptly groans at how comfortable the damn thing is.

“Not bad, hm?” a flight attendant is asking with a warm smile as she hands him another glass of champagne.

“Not bad at all,” he replies as he closes his eyes, but not before catching Sherlock’s almost fond smile.

They are due to land at 3:50pm local time, 20:50 GMT. If he gets a nap in, he might be able to keep his eyes open through Harry and Clara's cocktail party this evening. But knowing that piercing gaze will be on him for the better part of eight hours will make sleep relatively elusive. 

John cracks an eye open to watch Sherlock pull out a large tome from his bag and when he catches sight of the cover, he blanches: 

_The Complete History of Jack the Ripper: New Edition_

He swallows hard and closes his eyes once more. 

He can worry that his date is a potential serial killer later. 

xxxxxx

Sherlock blinks his eyes open with a kind of lackadaisical irritation, surprised that they had closed to begin with. Napping, after all, is for the weak and useless.

His book is still resting on his lap, pages slightly crinkled from where he shifted in his sleep, and the flight attendant is looking at him like he did something potentially 'cute' while unconscious. _Tedious._

He glances at his charge across the way and finds himself smiling, all frustration at his transport’s rebellion evaporating. John is curled up in the lounge, blanket tugged up to his chin and brow furrowed in some dream-induced displeasure. He looks younger like this - Unburdened. Not that he looks _old_ , per se, just... weary. Sherlock can feel the plane's slow descent and he'll be damned if he lets a flight attendant wake John when he could have the pleasure.  

"John?" he murmurs, mindful (for once) of their fellow passengers. "John, wake up." 

"Hm?" The man shifts and pulls the blanket tighter. It is decidedly _not_ adorable.

Sound sleeper, then. Sherlock files that away into his mind palace that is slowly filling with facts and details that make up one John Watson.

“Contact. Wait out,” he says in a clipped, militaristic tone and the army phrase seems to have the desired effect: John’s eyes snap open and he sits straight up, hair sticking every which way and eyes darting around the cabin for any sign of enemy fire.

The tactic was perhaps a bit cruel, but useful all the same.

“Oh,” John murmurs when he realizes he’s still onboard Virgin Atlantic’s finest. “Sorry – thought I heard something.”

Sherlock smiles into his lap and goes about packing his bag once more. “We’re landing in a few minutes.”

“Right,” John replies, scrubbing a hand over his face and surreptitiously checking his breath. He jumps when Sherlock tosses him the kit that comes with every first class seat, complete with socks, toothbrush, toothpaste, tissues, and earplugs.

John mock glares, but his eyes thank him all the same. He peers into the pocket at the side of his lounge and finds his own kit, tossing it to Sherlock in return as he stands and disappears into the loo.

Sherlock watches him go and wonders why flirting with this relatively unassuming man is so much easier than with the rest of his clients.

The landing is smooth and baggage claim less chaotic than most, though the star-spangled paraphernalia is a bit over the top, owing most likely to the upcoming Memorial Day holiday.

They exit into the oppressive Washington DC humidity and thankfully don’t have to walk far to their chauffeured car. The chauffeured car that John didn’t realize came with Upper Class if the look of wonder on his face is anything to go by. 

They just manage to beat the city’s rush hour as they escape towards the Bay, but John has not said a word in approximately seventeen minutes and that will not do.

“John, do calm down. Your anxiety levels have risen 37 percent since we landed.”

The man smirks, but continues staring out the window as they cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge – a feat of engineering even Sherlock Holmes can admit is unlike anything he’s ever seen in England. “Easier said than done,” John murmurs before sighing heavily. “I should probably warn you: my family is insane.”

“Most are.”

“Not like this.”

Sherlock tears his gaze away from the blue depths hundreds of meters below their car, gazes straight into John’s eyes, and takes a deep breath:

“Your twin sister, Harriet, is a recovering alcoholic. Born seven minutes before you, she likes to pretend you need protecting when in reality, you’ve pulled her out of more bars than she’ll ever care to admit. She’s been with Clara off and on for the better part of seven years. They met at a bar where your deployment party was being held. You joined the army because they needed doctors and you had just graduated from medical school. Your parents had passed and there was nothing keeping you at home, save your sister. You conducted two tours, fought bravely in either Afghanistan or Iraq, still not sure which one, were invalided home, and decorated. Harry and Clara dated throughout your deployment, and upon your return, they threw you a party in an effort to rouse you from the epic depression you had fallen into. Which brings us to your ex, whom you’re still in love with. Mary Morstan – friends with Clara since university and invited to the party. You hit it off, dated for two years, proposed, and then she broke it off last year without any explanation. You still harbor intense feelings for her and yet you’re a prideful man, which is why you called me to attend this wedding as your date, seeing as you are the Best Man and Mary is the Maid of Honor. Did I miss anything?” he asks, drawing a long breath. “Oh, and you have a great aunt who means well, likes her gin, and knows _nothing_ about anything I just said.”

He finally glances over to find John staring at him, absolutely slack-jawed. “That was…”

Sherlock holds his breath, bracing for the blow. He usually doesn’t let himself go like that while on a job. _Stupid._

“… brilliant.”

His head snaps up and his lips pop open.

“Absolutely brilliant.” John is shaking his head with an unbelieving smile on his face. “How…?”

“I read your dossier,” he lies and John frowns.

“I didn’t give you a dossier.”

“No, you didn’t,” he replies and leaves it at that; just waiting for inevitable berating. He’s learned that people generally don’t like their lives flayed open for the world to see.

John’s eyes narrow knowingly, but he turns and glances out the window once more but, as they leave highways behind for back roads, the tongue-lashing doesn’t come.

Strange.

A long stretch of silence descends until John voice breaks it minutes later.

“You said I’m still in love with her.” It’s not a question and Sherlock is honestly not sure if he’s expected to answer.

“Aren’t you?” It comes out more unsure than he means it to.

But John doesn’t reply and, for the first time on a trip full of not-unpleasant surprises, Sherlock feels a step behind.

xxxxxx

John’s fingers tap out a staccato beat that gets more and more uneven the closer to town they get. They’re passing lush farmlands under a clear blue sky and yet the sound of the bay is just on the other side of the tree line. Best of both worlds, really.

But though the scenery is gorgeous and the air fresh, his stomach churns with every kilometer they pass.

Sherlock has been silent ever since his frankly frightening and entirely accurate assessment and John is adrift, unsure what to do about the complex and conflicting emotions wreaking havoc on his system. The man to his right is an anomaly - as complex and mysterious and alluring as anything John has ever encountered. It's terrifying. 

They reach the town proper, a quaint thing full of brick sidewalks, tiny streets, and old (by American standards) architecture, boasting its Revolutionary War history and its seafood in equal measure.

Sherlock scoffs beside him the welcome sign. “The town that fooled the British’? Really?”

John smiles as he reads the slogan. “Let the colonies have their victory.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and John finds himself reaching over and squeezing the fingers resting on the leather seat between them. He doesn’t, however, expect Sherlock to squeeze back.

The hotel (or rather the compound) is on the other side of the village and the speed limit is slow enough for John to clock the stores they pass – an ice cream shop, a crab joint, a pub that’s clearly been here nearly as long as the town itself – and before he knows it, the car is turning into the driveway of a gorgeous white colonial mansion turned inn.

“Christ almighty,” he mutters. He knew Clara’s family were rich, but _jesus._

“Tiny gathering, is it?” Sherlock asks and John dissolves into giggles as Sherlock follows shortly after.

“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” he says as the car comes to a stop.

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

“I thought you didn’t know which it was,” John teases and Sherlock smiles.

“Lucky guess.”

“Liar.”

Sherlock’s smile sobers for a bit as he deliberately takes John’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. John's breath hitches in his chest. Showtime, then.

“Shall we?” he asks, but John can only nod as he opens the door and attempts to find his sea legs. He has a feeling he’ll be needing them this weekend as he listens to the sailboat halyards bang against their masts in the breeze.

Their driver helps them with their bags and they barely make to the front desk before a voice he knows only too well cries out through the lobby.

“John Hamish Watson!”

“Oh Christ, gird your loins,” John mutters with a deep inhale, before plastering a large smile on his face and turning around.

“Aunt Adelaide!” he greets with a kiss to each cheek.

“I can’t believe you made it!” she cries, grabbing his chin and wiggling it back and forth as if he were five.

“So little faith in me?”

“Only in your ability to face your problems.”

“Ta, Aunt Adelaide,” he grimaces, but allows her to tug him down and place another lipsticked kiss to his forehead.

“You’re late – ”

“I’m aware.”

“The party started an hour ago.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to discuss the flight schedule next time Richard Branson and I have tea.”

“You’re teasing,” she glares and he laughs.

“Yes.”

“It’s rude to tease a woman of my age.”

“My apologies,” he replies almost sincerely as he wraps his arms around her in a genuine hug. Adelaide is just on the far side of 80 and is his last remaining relative on his mother’s side. She looked after Harry and him as best she could when their mother died and though she may bear the title of aunt, she’s more grandmother than anything else.

“Oh my dear boy,” she murmurs, pulling away and cupping his cheeks. “And to think Mary is the Maid of Honor...”

He stiffens in her arms and feels Sherlock press ever so slightly closer to his back. “Yes, Aunt Adelaide.”

“This should have been your wedding – ”

“Have you met Sherlock?” he blurts, interrupting her morose and entirely unhelpful what-ifs as he grabs Sherlock’s arm and tugs him forward, slipping an arm around his waist.

Adelaide frowns and glances between them as John holds his breath. This shouldn’t be too much of a shock to her. She’d known about James, despite his attempts to keep it from her and she was fine then. She even still asks about him from time to time, but to see it right in front of her? Well…

“Sherlock?” she asks with a tilt of her head, gaze snapping to the taller man beside him.

“My – ” John flounders. They didn’t discuss this.

“Partner,” Sherlock swoops in with a winning smile and kiss to Aunt Adelaide’s hand, which has her positively swooning. “Pleasure,” he murmurs. “I’ve heard an awful lot about you."

“Don’t you dare believe a word he tells you,” she giggles, completely smitten.

“Only good things, I assure you,” Sherlock smoothly replies and it’s all John can do not to roll his eyes.

“Okay, we’re just going to get changed – ”

“Nonsense! Your gentleman looks great!” Adelaide says, swatting John gently on the arm as Sherlock’s cheeks go a bit pink.

“Aunt Adelaide, we just got off a very long flight. Give us ten minutes.”

She side-eyes him. “Fine, but if Harry finds out that you got here and didn’t immediately run to her side – ”

“Yes, yes. I’ll be drawn and quartered.”

“As long as you know,” she relents as she pinches his cheek one last time and disappears around the corner.

“Sorry,” John begins, relinquishing his hold on Sherlock’s waist, “she’s a bit…”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock finishes. “Did you know she volunteered in a WWII hospital as a child? No wonder you became a doctor, what with her influence.”

John stares at him. “How do you _do_ that?”

But Sherlock merely shrugs, picks up their bags and heads down the hall, leaving John to get their keys from a highly amused concierge.

“Speaking of… we should go over our story," Sherlock is saying by the time John catches up to him. 

“Speaking of what?” he asks. “What story?”

“Our history, have you not been listening?”

“You left me to get the bloody key!”

“Oh.” Sherlock shrugs and stops at a door. “I believe this is us.”

“I – ” John pauses and looks down at the card the concierge handed him. “How could you _possibly_ know that? Did you mindmeld her?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen innocently. “Merely read the computer screen while you were having an existential crisis about your aunt possibly developing late-in-life homophobic tendencies.”

“Oh my God," John blurts in irritated wonder as Sherlock groans. 

“Just open the door. Your bag is heavy.”

“No one said you had to carry it.”

“It’s what partners do, isn’t it?”

“Just get in,” John huffs as he shoves the key in the slot and pushes the door open to reveal a beautiful room outfitted in creams and navys and tasteful nautical décor.

“As I was saying,” Sherlock grunts as he drops the bags on the floor at the foot of the bed. “We need a story. How we met, how long we’ve been together, etc.”

“Right,” John nods, rubbing his suddenly clammy palms against his trousers and wondering how many of these fabrications Sherlock has concocted with others. “We met – ”

“At your hospital. I had injured myself and you treated me. People love that sort of thing.”

John reins in his bitter scoff. Of course they do. “How did you injure yourself?”

“Slice to my bicep from a potential mugger.”

“That’s… dramatic,” John replies, frowning.

“Even have the scar to prove it,” Sherlock replies as he unbuttons his shirt and air raid sirens go off in John’s head.

“What – what are you doing?”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow as he slips it off and puts it in the handy dry cleaning bag hanging on the closet doorknob. “Changing. Freshening up. That is what you told your aunt we’d be doing, isn’t it?”

 _Watson, you idiot._ “Right, yes. ‘Course.” He gets to work on his own buttons and curses his shaking fingers. Sure enough, there's a scar on Sherlock's (incredibly toned) bicep. The man is fit. Very, very fit and John can’t help but be self-conscious of the exit wound on his back as he strips off his own shirt, followed by his vest.

“I figured it was the left,” the soft murmur comes a moment later and John laughs, but a sudden wave of emotion steals the humor from his voice.

Jesus, he really needs to get himself together.

“May I?” Sherlock asks, so cautiously, and John nods, biting his lip. Thank God they aren’t facing each other.

The pad of the man’s long finger traces the edge of the scar oh so gently and he feels pressure, but no feeling as he grazes the epicenter of John’s damaged nerves.

“How close did you come?”

“To dying?” It’s not the question he had been expecting. Then again, John isn’t sure what was.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers.

“Very.”

Abruptly, Sherlock’s hand drops, breaking the spell, and John keeps trying to find it again as he reapplies deodorant, washes his face, combs his hair, and pulls on a fresh suit.

“Ready?” he asks and Sherlock levels a knowing glance at him in turn as he smoothes down the front of his aubergine (damn the man) shirt.

“I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine,” John replies even as his stomach lurches.

 _Come on, man, you invaded Afghanistan,_ he thinks as he kicks his shoulders back and reaches for the door handle, thoroughly ignoring the inviting king sized bed in the middle of the room. He can have that particular panic attack later.

“You can do this,” Sherlock murmurs with a hand on his shoulder and it shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.

But he can. He _can_ do this.

He opens the door just in time for a blur of man-shaped pastel to go flying past, shouting, “Come back here, you asshole!”

The men stand in the door for a moment and wait for anyone else to join the chase.

“I thought the American elite were supposed to be more cultured than that,” Sherlock mutters and John snorts at the thought of Clara’s family being classified as ‘elite’ anything. Drinkers? Maybe. Sailors? Definitely. Their manners may be refined, but their grasp of the English language is decidedly colloquial.

“Half are American. Half are English. And each likes to blame the other for the fall of the British Empire.”

“Ah,” Sherlock replies as if that makes total sense and perhaps it does. Clara’s family are just as crazy as what’s left of John’s, but he adores them all the same.

They follow the sounds of a cocktail party in full swing and barely make it around the corner before thin arms are wrapping around his neck and the scent of familiar perfume engulfs him.

“My dear, dear John,” Olivia Collins trills as she squeezes him. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Another shout filters in from the lawn through the open window followed by another expletive.

“Sounds like you’re pretty far into it to me,” he laughs as he pulls away and places a kiss on Clara’s mother’s cheek.

“Let me get a good look at you.” She steps back and holds his arms out, inspecting him up and down as any good mother would. “Could do with some more meat on your bones, but you look well enough,” she replies with a wink. “Your aunt said you were here with a strapping young man and I see, for once, Adelaide did not exaggerate. Hello, I’m Olivia Collins, mother of the bride. Well, one of them.”

John steps aside as Sherlock takes his place with a warm smile (more sincere than when he’d kissed Aunt Adelaide) and shakes her hand. “Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” she repeats. “What a wonderfully fabulous name.”

 _Indeed,_ John can’t help but think.

“Well, welcome,” she says as she continues holding Sherlock’s hand and grabs John’s in her other. “Now, this is a marathon, not a sprint. We have cocktails today and tomorrow is young people on the Bay – ”

Sherlock makes a noise and John glances at him over Olivia’s head. “Young people on the Bay?” he mouths and John shrugs as they’re yanked into an adjacent room by a still chattering Olivia.

“You missed stags and hens – well, hens and hens, I suppose, and hopefully after tonight, the jetlag will have worn off.” She giggles before waving her hand at the controlled chaos around them. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

In fact, it rather is. It looks like Dionysus is hosting a party catered by Fortnum & Mason and outfitted by Brooks Brothers. People are milling about in their finery as a particularly enthusiastic game of croquet is being played on the lawn. The bar is well-stocked and the boats gently rock in their slips with the waves. The banquet hall's French doors open onto the patio where a tent has been erected on the grass, outfitted in hundreds and hundreds of fairy lights. 

It’s rather… wonderful, actually.

“We’ve taken over the hotel,” Olivia murmurs, as if sharing some big secret. “We figured we couldn’t subject civilians to this lot.”

But before he can reply, a familiar voice is yelling, “You jackass,” and John spins just in time to catch his sister as she hurls herself at him. “Aunt Adelaide said you were here!” She squeezes him tight and he squeezes back, finding a shocking amount of comfort in the embrace.

“Hi,” he grins as he pulls away and places her on the ground once more.

“Hi,” she replies, cheeky smile firmly in place.

“You look beautiful.”

Her smile widens and she spins in her pale blue dress, before tugging him closer. “Don’t tell Clara. I put up enough of a stink about having to wear this frilly thing, I don’t want her to know I actually enjoy it.”

“Our secret,” he replies, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear as her ever-knowing eyes dart over his shoulder.

“And who might this be?” she asks saucily and he glances heavenward. _This_ is the Harry he knows: about as far from tactful and demure as you can get. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man says, offering Harry one hand while settling the other on John’s lower back.

“Charmed,” she replies with a wink and Sherlock chuckles.

“Down, girl,” John drawls and Sherlock presses a kiss to his temple, causing his breath to hitch.

Harry’s gaze darts between the two of them, and John knows that this is the test. If they can fool his twin, they’re in the clear.

“You never told me about him,” she mock complains, but there’s an undercurrent of a challenge there.

“Didn’t want to distract you from the big day,” John replies. Sherlock’s arm tightens around his waist and he subtly leans into the other man's chest. _Please, Harry. Just leave it be._  She opens her mouth to no doubt ask a slew of questions, but before the first one is even past her lips, someone is calling for her.

Harry groans and shouts “In a minute!” over her shoulder. “Well, Sherlock, welcome to the family. We’re all nutters. Apologies in advance.” She steps forward and kisses him on the cheek. “And you,” she says, poking John in the chest. “We’re going to chat about this,” she waves her finger in a loop between the two of them, “later.”

“I’ll pencil it in.”

She glares at him before stepping forward and wrapping him in a hug once more. “Oh I have missed you.”

“Missed you too, kiddo.”

“I’m older.”

“By seven minutes.”

She swats the back of his head, presses another kiss to his cheek and one on Sherlock’s for good measure before dashing off to do her bridely duties.

“That was Harry,” Sherlock murmurs.

“That was Harry,” John confirms with a fond smile before more arms wrap around him from behind. He cranes his neck, but hears Clara’s giggle before he sees her.

“Brother,” she greets with a squeeze and he places his hand over hers on his chest.

“Sister. Get around here and give me a proper hug.”

Clara slides under his arm and wraps her arms around his neck.

John swallows hard once more because for as much as he claims not to have much in the way of family, he thinks he’s gotten more hugs in the last five minutes than he has in the last five years.

“Congratulations," he murmurs with a low chuckle. "You sure you know what you’re doing?”

Clara turns and watches Harry talk animatedly to an uncle of some sort. “Yep. I do,” she grins before her gaze too finds Sherlock.

“Sorry, Clara, this is Sherlock. My partner.” He congratulates himself on not faltering on the title.

“Hi,” Clara smiles, taking his hand enthusiastically before shaking her head and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Anyone good enough for Johnny here is good enough for me.”

Sherlock grins as John groans. “Christ, she’s got you calling me that, too? I’ll kill her.”

“Not before Saturday, please,” Clara instructs as she grabs their arms and leads them over to the bar. “Now what’ll it be?”

“G&T,” John says wearily as Sherlock murmurs, “Two please.”

John takes a moment with Sherlock at his back and Clara complaining about bouquets to observe the brides. They make quite a pair, he notes, with Harry’s dirty blonde coloring contrasting nicely with Clara’s dark brunette. Harry has round features and soft curls, while Clara is a bit more pointed beneath the blunt line of her fringe. They complement each other perfectly.

Clara turns to give her order to the bartender and John leans back into Sherlock’s chest once more. 

“You all right?” he asks lowly.

“Fine, why?”

“You’ve been quiet.”

“Just observing,” he whispers, pressing another kiss into John’s hair. It’s rapidly (and worryingly) becoming his favorite thing.

“Isn’t he handsome?” Harry giggles as she appears out of nowhere and throws an arm around Clara.

“Yes, quite,” Clara replies, brown eyes twinkling as she gazes at the pair of them. “How did you meet?”

“At John’s hospital,” Sherlock replies, pressing close to John’s back and letting his thumb brush his nape. John takes a gulp of his drink just to calm his beating heart.

“Oh, are you a doctor?”

“No, consulting detective,” Sherlock replies without missing a beat and John works as hard as he ever has to school his face into some sort of expression that shows this isn’t news to him.

What the hell is a consulting detective?

“What the hell is a consulting detective?” Harry asks and John snorts his gin. God bless his sister.

Sherlock glares at him, but John smiles innocently.

“I help the police when they’re out of their depth, which is always.”

“Fascinating,” Clara responds, but Harry frowns.

“But how’d you get in hospital then?”

“Failed mugging. John here patched me up.”

He knows they have a winning story when both of the girls’ hands come up to cover their mouths and they make a noise that sounds remarkably like ‘aw.’

“Told you,” Sherlock murmurs into his ear and John shivers, but attempts to glare anyway.

“Is that John Watson I see?” a deep voice calls and John turns, smiling widely.

“Elliot.”

“The good doctor,” Clara’s father greets warmly, pulling John into a hug.

“Daddy, John brought a boy home,” Clara singsongs and John glares in her direction.

“Very adult of you.”

“I know,” she grins.

Elliot Collins turns an imperious eye on the pair of them and he’s an imposing man to begin with. There’s a reason he has a direct line to the Oval Office and John swallows, taking no comfort in the fact that Sherlock has gone stock still beside him. 

“I hear this is Sherlock Holmes,” Elliot replies with an over-serious eyebrow arch as he reaches out and firmly shakes Sherlock’s hand. The charade is short-lived though as he lets out a booming laugh and claps Sherlock heartily on the shoulder, all smiles. “Welcome, truly. Though I fear I should offer a warning for what you’re about to witness this weekend.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad,” Harry drawls as Elliot’s eyes twinkle just like his daughter’s.

“If you need anything at all, you just let me know.”

“We will,” both he and Sherlock answer at once causing a giggle from the girls and a knowing glance from the man in front of them.

 _“Testing one, two. Is this thing on?”_ Olivia’s voice echoes through the doors from the lawn and Clara groans.

“Oh sweet Jesus. Who gave that woman a mic?” Clara grabs her father and stalks off to save the guests from her mother’s ramblings.

“Be right back,” Sherlock murmurs, drifting away towards the open door to the veranda and the lawn beyond, giving John and Harry their much-needed moment alone.

“So,” Harry begins, sidling up to John and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Lay it on me,” he sighs.

“Where did you find him?”

“Classifieds,” he replies, congratulating himself on a joke that’s not really a lie.

Harry laughs and nudges him in the side before turning uncharacteristically serious. “He makes you happy?”

John swallows and watches as Sherlock studies whatever game the croquet has turned into. It seems to be some combination of cricket, baseball, and snooker.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Mary didn’t bring anyone,” Harry quietly informs him and John starts as something sharp pangs deep within him.

 _Mary._ One reunion that has yet to happen.

And only then does John realize that he hasn’t even been looking for her.

xxxxxx

The ball goes flying into the water and Sherlock watches with no shortage of amusement as the younger generation on the lawn all rain verbal beatings down on the man that hit it into the bay.

“It wasn’t my fault!” the man, who bears a shocking resemblance to Elliot, cries. Clara’s brother, he deduces.

“Mr. Holmes,” Adelaide begins as she joins Sherlock on the patio, glass of champagne in hand.

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply before realizing that she was never introduced to him as anything other than ‘Aunt Adelaide.’ And he certainly can’t call her _that._

“Call me ‘Adelaide,’ dear,” she says with a chuckle. “It’s really not that hard.”

He nods in her direction and clinks his G&T against her flute.

“So you’re the boy who’s captured my John’s heart,” she continues and Sherlock stiffens.

“Luckily for me, yes,” he replies, feeling an inordinate amount of guilt, lying to this old woman. But why should he? Sherlock has lied to countless people in his life, including people he’s claimed to love. Why is this any different?

Because it is.

And the reason why comes strolling over a moment later.

“All right?” John asks, sliding a hand across Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“Quite,” he replies, managing a smile.

“Aunt Adelaide,” John chides, “you haven’t been telling him childhood stories, have you?”

“Oh, dearie, have I got a few for you!” Adelaide claps her hands together and John groans to the sky.

“You brought that on yourself, you know,” Sherlock chuckles and John presses his face into the taller man’s shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah,” he huffs, breath hot even through Sherlock’s suit as he presses a quick kiss to his jaw. “Loo break.”

Sherlock hums a response and watches him go, wondering why the breeze seems just a bit cooler the further away he walks.

Adelaide doesn’t seem to notice.

“So, when John was five…”

xxxxxx

The hallway is blessedly quiet and John places his empty gin glass on an abandoned tray, sympathizing with the poor sods who have to clean up after this rambunctious lot.

And it’s that thought that has him distracted enough that when he turns the corner to go into the men’s room, he, of course, runs smack into his ex-fiancée.

“Mary,” he blurts, steadying himself on her shoulders as she grips his arms.

“John,” she breathes, blonde hair falling into her eyes. “Um…” she steps forward and they awkwardly fumble through a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, sorry!”

“Good to see you,” he says and he means it. It has been a while and she does look… good.

“You too,” she replies warmly. “How’ve you been?”

“Good, good,” he nods. “Hope I didn’t bang you up too badly there.”

“No, no,” she smiles, brushing her hair out of her face once more. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Right.”

“When did you get in?” she asks, but before he can answer, the doors at the end of the hall blow open in an entrance only Clara’s ridiculous brother Alec could make.

“John! You are needed urgently!” he calls. “Someone is bleeding! Stitches are required!”

“What the hell?” he manages as Alec grabs hold of his elbow and steers him in the opposite direction. “I do actually have to pee, you know.”

“Tough. Lives are at stake.” He has Elliot’s looks, but Olivia’s mischievousness, which is probably why he and John immediately got on like a house on fire.

They make it back to the lounge area where the front desk is, but John hears no wailing and sees no trail of blood.

“Alec, who’s dying?”

“What?” Alec turns, already picking a champagne glass off a passing tray. “Oh, no one. Just wanted to get you away from her.”

“I don’t need you to save me from Mary, you git,” John grounds out, punching the man none-too-gently in the shoulder.

“I’m saving you from _yourself_ , you wanker,” Alex replies, punching back just as hard. “Especially when you came here with the likes of him,” he says, nodding towards Sherlock standing on the patio where John left him. “I don’t play for your team, but goddammit, if I did?” He shakes his head and looks at John’s date like a medium rare filet mignon.

“You sure you don’t play for my team?” John teases and Alec elbows him in the ribs.

“Well, you play for both teams, which is really just downright greedy.”

“That’s what Harry says.”

“And she’s usually right,” Alec replies, before looking stricken. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

“Trust me. Harry does not need a bigger ego than the one she already has.”

“True enough.” Alec raises his glass and downs it in one. “But you’re good?”

“You ask me that now, you tosser? After you manhandle me – ”

“ _Save_ you,” Alec clarifies and John laughs, clapping him on the back.

“Yeah, I’m good. I think I’m good.” He glances over at Sherlock again, and attempts to ignore the fluttering in his chest. It goes away like a flame doused in water though when Mary appears at his side.

“Oh fuck,” he murmurs, an epithet that Alec repeats when he follow’s John’s gaze.

“Nothing about that can end well.”

They’re through the hall and onto the patio faster than John thought possible. He vaguely notices Alec hanging back and waiting to see how he handles this (not well at all, _obviously_ ) as he steps in between Sherlock and Mary and pulls Sherlock’s lips down onto his own.

It’s petty and juvenile and necessary.

The man makes a noise of surprise before sinking into the embrace. John traces his thumb across that ridiculous cheekbone and feels the curve of Sherlock’s smile against his lips.

 “All right?”

“Yes.” Sherlock frowns. “You?”

“You’re here with him?” comes Mary’s high, reedy voice and only then does Sherlock stiffen and pull away, an indiscernible expression on his face.

_Fuck._

Sherlock’s cerulean gaze is clocking John and Mary and Mary’s reaction to John with a rapidity that makes it quite clear that no detail is going unnoticed. Clearly photographs weren’t a part of the so-called dossier that he’d gone over.

“Sherlock, this is Mary,” John begins rather shakily. “Mary, Sherlock. My – ” but the word deserts him again.

“Partner,” Sherlock supplies and John wonders if he imagined the melancholy in Sherlock’s tone. Judging by the lines around Sherlock’s eyes, he did not.

“Right,” Mary replies, gaze darting between them as she takes Sherlock’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” she murmurs, clearly hurt, and John feels like the biggest heel in the world.

Because he’s not sure which hurt he’s most sorry for: Mary’s or Sherlock’s.

xxxxxx

Sherlock is sluggish as he gets ready for bed that evening. Part of it is the jetlag, part the alcohol, and part something he has no desire to investigate. It’s a longing he doesn’t want and a desire he doesn’t need.

He pulls the covers back and slips into bed, listening to John hum a sad Beatles tune in the shower.

This day was revealing on multiple levels, but two conclusions stick out above all others:

  1. John may or may not be over Mary.


  1. Mary is definitely not over John.



Which of course brings him to an errant third:

Why does it make him ache like it does?

 

The Inn: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The hotel where they stay is a real place. It's called the Inn at Perry Cabin on the Eastern Shore of Maryland.


	2. The Execution

Sherlock wakes at half five the next morning with John draped across his chest and a new resolve to treat this like any other case.

He’ll be professional, but polite. Courteous, but distant. Engaged, but detached. 

John shifts in his sleep and murmurs something unintelligible, cheek pressed against Sherlock’s shoulder and breath hot on his neck. They definitely did not fall asleep in this position.

_Professional, but polite. Courteous, but distant. Engaged, but detached._

John smiles and curls his fingers around the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt.

He curses under his breath.

Things were so much easier before John Watson came into his life.

xxxxxx

John blinks his bleary eyes open and the first thing he sees is the newspaper. The newspaper which Sherlock is reading. Which John can see because he’s lying across Sherlock’s chest like one of those heroines from Harry’s teenage romance novel phase.

“Oh…” he rasps as he lifts his head. “Sorry.”

Sherlock hums and turns a page in the Arts section. “No bother."

His voice rumbles beneath John's palm and John smiles despite himself. "Wha'time is it?" 

"Just gone six." 

John groans and rolls over, cursing his jetlag as he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I would give my left arm for a coffee." 

And just at that moment, there's a knock at the door. 

"Ask and ye shall receive," Sherlock replies with an entirely too smug smile on his face as he shifts out of bed and pulls the hotel-provided dressing gown over his pajamas.  

John swears he doesn't watch the curve of his bum before the terrycloth blocks it from view. 

Burying his heated face in the pillow that still smells like Sherlock’s shampoo (which definitely doesn’t help matters), he listens to the exchanged pleasantries with the porter before the door shuts and John is forced to face his ridiculously attractive date.

There are worse problems to have, really.

Sherlock carefully places the full tray on the bed as John pushes himself to sitting, inhaling the smell of French roast and practically tipping over in his effort to get closer. "That is sinful." 

"Had I known coffee would make you so suggestible, I would have rung sooner," Sherlock replies with a saucy wink as he sheds his dressing down once more.

John's ears go pink as his gaze immediately zeros in on the bare bit of flesh between the top of Sherlock's trousers and the bottom of his shirt.

“See something you like?” Sherlock asks with a raised eyebrow and John's whole face blushes positively scarlet. “You need only say the word, John. I told you my terms.”

“I – I didn’t – um,” he fumbles for a moment, willingly ignoring that he’s gone not-so-soft in his pants. “Right,” he manages, voice strained, as he stumbles out of the covers and into the relative safety of the loo, Sherlock’s teasing laughter following him all the way.

Five minutes later, after John has cleaned his teeth and managed to regain some semblance of composure, a gentle knock sounds at the door before it cracks open and a cup of coffee appears, hovering there as if a peace offering.

"Thanks," he manages, letting his fingers brush along Sherlock's as he takes it. 

"You're welcome," Sherlock quietly replies before shutting the door and letting John get on with his (cold) shower. 

John smiles softly, shakes his head, and takes a sip wondering, not for the first time, if this was the best or worst idea he's ever had. 

The coffee burns his tongue, but he groans in relief because, of course, the all-knowing git has prepared it exactly as he likes it. 

xxxxxx

“Run, you arsehole!” Alec screams and Sherlock gapes as he and John exit onto the patio over an hour later and into the morning sun.

This is it. He’s died and gone to the seventh circle of hell.

Someone appears to be running around the lawn in a circle while someone else scrambles for a ball before it falls into the water as various siblings, cousins, and random acquaintances cheer from the scattered lawn chairs.

“What is this?”

“Sherlock,” John laughs beside him. “It’s baseball.”

“Baseball?” He mouths the words as if the very concept of it hadn’t ever passed his not inconsiderable mind. And truth be told, it hadn't.

“It’s the Americans’ bastardization of cricket,” John explains, reaching out to place a hand on his arm before thinking better of it and letting it fall. Clearly, the morning’s teasing had made the man a tad gun shy. Shame. 

Sherlock doesn't bother telling him that he doesn't know what cricket is either.

“It’s entirely too early for this kind of behavior,” Olivia groans from behind her behemoth black sunglasses and Sherlock's lips quirk. At least one person is feeling the effects of last evening’s debauchery. 

Elliot merely snickers into his napkin.

Mary is supposedly the "pitcher" and Sherlock watches John's eyes clock her before immediately moving on to the breakfast spread on the side of the veranda. He supposes he should be grateful that John values eggs over ex-fiancees, at least in the mornings. 

"John, darling, be a dear and bring me a slice of fruit," Olivia requests as they make their way over and Elliot pipes up with, "And an Advil."  

She swats at him and even Sherlock is finding all of this familial camaraderie... odd. Not bad, just odd. 

"Is it normal for people to be this enthusiastic before the sun is high in the sky?"  

John laughs as he grabs a plate for himself before turning and handing one to Sherlock. "I'm pretty sure they started in on the mimosas at least an hour ago." 

Speaking of, a waiter in a black waistcoat appears out of nowhere with a tray of them. John takes one so Sherlock follows suit as they pile their plates. Well, John piles. Sherlock picks. 

"What is that?" he asks, poking his fork at a lump of something. 

John looks down and frowns. "It's a crabcake." 

"A what?"

He snorts. "A crabcake. The Chesapeake is famous for them." 

"Looks like something pulled from a cadaver." 

"And there goes my appetite," John groans as they make their way over to a table, dropping off Olivia's fruit on the way. 

"Pity," Sherlock teases. "Looks good." 

He eases into his chair and nudges his Ray Bans further up his nose as John squints into the morning sun and pointedly does _not_ glance in Mary’s direction.

The game continues as Clara barks orders, bringing an end (or at least a hiatus) to the shenanigans.

"So what's with the cadavers and the Jack the Ripper bios and the consulting detectiving?" John eventually asks as he bites off a bit of bacon and tries not to look nervous at the answer.

It’s almost enough for Sherlock to make him squirm a bit, but John _is_ paying for his services. He should at least be semi-up front with him about things. Some things. 

“Just a hobby. I really do help the police when they get out of their depth. There’s a Detective Inspector that owes me quite a few favors – ”

John’s eyebrows fly up and Sherlock nearly chokes on his mimosa at the thought of Lestrade like… that.

“Not _those_ kind of favors,” he replies with gentle reproach and a small shiver of disgust. John’s ears go pink and he returns to the safety of his bacon.

“And this?” he asks, gesturing around them. “If that’s a hobby, what is this?”

Sherlock shrugs and tries to gentle his voice as much as his blunt words will allow: “A job. One that I’m finding quite enjoyable at the moment, which is a rare change of pace, I must say."

“Oh,” John replies, and Sherlock isn’t sure if that’s relief or disappointment he sees in his eyes.

They finish breakfast in relative peace with John filling him in on the rules of the game (which make absolutely no sense) before cautiously making their way towards the melee. Harry is screaming as Clara rounds the bases before jumping into her fiancée’s arms. They’re on separate teams, but apparently true love cares not for such nonsense.

“You ready, Alec?” Mary calls as she winds up the pitch and Alec rests the bat on his shoulder with an eye roll.

“Bugger off, Mary,” he snaps, instantly putting him in Sherlock’s good graces.

“Oi!” Clara yells, tossing her glove at her brother’s head. "Be nice," she barks as John hides a grin in Sherlock’s shoulder where he stands just behind him.

Interesting. 

"You want a go?" John asks against his shirt, lips soft and breath hot even through the cotton. 

Sherlock's emotions are at war with themselves: incredulity that John even asked him such a question and whatever is causing the rather fantastic somersaults his stomach is doing as John presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

“Johnny!” Harry yells and John groans.

“Christ, she found me.”

“Your turn!”

“Yeah, yeah.” John begins to trot off, but not before Sherlock sneaks in a cheeky (in more ways than one) bum pat.

John turns with a wide smile and a wink, before taking the bat that Alec is offering with a grumble. Harry catches his eye and wanders over, smug smile on her face.

“I saw that.”

“Saw what?” he asks, thankful that his eyes (always too expressive) are hidden behind his sunglasses.

“You like him.”

“Of course I like him. I’m dating him.”

“Are you now,” she murmurs, eyes narrowing knowingly, but before he can ask her what the hell that means or recognize the spike of fear he feels at possibly being found out, John is smiling at him as he steps up to the plate.

Mary gives a hip wiggle that’s not remotely needed as she winds up, but John’s expression is one of competitive determination.

“Do me proud, brother! For once in your life!” Harry calls and John makes a rude hand gesture just as Mary pitches, causing the first strike.

John glares at his sister and she giggles, “My bad!” as he settles back next to the plate. The morning sun is behind Mary, though, so he’s squinting as he attempts to see the ball. She pitches, he swings, and he gets a piece of it but the foul ball still counts as a strike.

That’s two. John told him it was ‘three and you’re out.’

He’s striding forward before he even really realizes what he’s doing and even John looks a bit worried as he lowers the bat and puts a hand out towards Mary so she doesn’t pitch and accidentally clock Sherlock in the head. He’s appreciative because a concussion this early in their endeavors would not bode well.

“Sherlock?” John asks, but Sherlock merely takes his sunglasses off and slides them gently up John’s nose, tucking the arms behind his ears.

“Better?”

John swallows. “Much.”

“Go get ‘em, Tiger,” he replies, bending down and placing a quick kiss on John’s lips before striding back over to Harry.

Mary looks like she’s swallowed something sour and he tries not to gloat, but going by the way Harry is fondly shaking her head at him, he fails. Ah well.

“Well played,” Harry quietly replies, turning her attention to the game where Alec is currently attempting to steal third as Clara shouts that he’s not allowed to do that yet. Harry’s gone serious though, eyes carefully clocking her brother where he exasperatedly tells Alec to stay on the base until the pitch. “I never liked Mary with John,” she says after a moment. “Sure, I like her well enough on her own, but she wasn’t right for him. Now, she can take a long walk off a short pier for all I care, but she and Clara have a history.”

“And you and Clara have a future,” he murmurs and she nods and sighs.

“The things we do for love.” She cuts her gaze to his and he nearly flinches from the intensity of it.

“Is this the ‘hurt him and I kill you’ talk?” He holds his breath as Harry coolly turns her attention back to the game.

“Does it need to be?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer because, for once, his ready-made reply is not on the tip of his sharp tongue. How _does_ this end? None of it is real, but John is shaping up to be unlike any of his other clients. He had taken a massive reduction in price simply because the man had sounded… interesting. Sad, but interesting.

Sherlock is used to cases involving politicians and society’s elite. They are names and faces whose less than aboveboard dealings he stores in his mind palace for future use for whenever the Met comes calling. It is the job that aids the hobby. Those are the people he deals with. Not an invalided army doctor with a small family but a big heart.

John bends forward, focus honed behind Sherlock’s sunglasses, and waits for Mary to pitch the ball. She does and the crack that sounds as it connects with the bat echoes across the lawn.

“Run, you bastard!” Harry screams as John takes off towards first, leaving Mary looking put out at his home run.

Sherlock cheers and claps as any good boyfriend would, but his smile is genuine and his joy real, something warm and fiery igniting in his stomach as John crosses home plate and immediately meets his gaze.

 _How will this end?_ he asks himself once more.

Inevitably he will hurt John.

That’s how it ends.

xxxxxx

John glances over at Sherlock for the third time in the last thirty seconds as they make their way back to the room to shower before the evening’s festivities. He’s tired and could honestly do with a nap after all of the running around (and champagne), but Elliot said that the boat left at five o’clock on the dot and Harry would kill him if he missed ‘Young People on the Bay.’ Or whatever the hell they’re calling it.

Sherlock’s shirt is tight across the tension in his back and he nearly aches to reach out and press his hand against those shoulder blades, to help bear the weight of whatever burden they carry, but he can’t let himself get too deep.

After all, Sherlock said it was just a job.

“What is it?” Sherlock finally asks as he steps up to their door and slides the key in. There's no irritation in the question, merely curiosity, but John freezes all the same, knowing he’s been caught out.

“Just wondering if you’re all right," he replies as he follows Sherlock into the room. 

“Why wouldn’t I be? My boyfriend scored a goal and managed not to break my sunglasses,” is the blase reply and John laughs, if only to cover the flush he feels at the memory of the charged moment.

“A run.”

“What?”

“It’s not a goal. It’s a run.”

Sherlock waves his hand in a careless arc and heads toward the closet to pull out a polo shirt as John continues to stare at his back. Something is off.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Other than dreading whatever is in store for us this evening…” he mumbles as he turns and makes his way towards the loo, undoing his trousers as he goes.

John clears his throat as he stares at every inch of the pale skin revealed until the trousers just drop to the carpeted floor. “Right,” he blurts.

“Oh sorry,” Sherlock murmurs as he pulls his shirt off and turns, leaving him as naked as the day he was born. “Do you mind if I shower first?”

John stares at the ceiling and shakes his head, even as he bites his lip. “Nope, no. You – you go right ahead.”

He swears he hears Sherlock chuckle as the water starts up. The blasted man has left the door open.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” John accuses and Sherlock pokes his wet head out from behind the shower curtain, affecting an innocent look.

“I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.”

John shakes his head and, as if to prove a point, pulls his shirt off too.

“Joining me?” Sherlock asks with a raised eyebrow as John gets to work on his belt buckle.

“Dunno. How much would it cost me?” John cheekily replies, but Sherlock isn’t fazed.

“For you? No charge,” he replies with a wink as he disappears back behind the curtain.

Bastard.

John laughs to himself as he sheds the rest of his clothes and grabs a terrycloth dressing gown to wait his turn.

At least Sherlock is smiling again. John is rapidly realizing he doesn’t like it when he frowns, which is a rather dangerous conclusion to come to.

He stares at himself in the mirror – the morning sun has brought back shades of his Afghanistan tan and his blonde hair is dark with sweat at the temples. All in all, he doesn’t look half-bad. A bit dirty, but decent.

“Delectable,” Sherlock murmurs and John jumps, so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even hear the water turn off let alone the man sneak up behind him.

Sherlock presses a kiss to the side of John’s neck, no doubt tasting salt from his sweat, and turns to pull his pants on while John takes a moment to collect himself and head for the shower.

It’s tough, this. This pretending. It’s just the two of them in the room, there’s no audience to speak of, and yet Sherlock’s lips were soft on the sensitive skin of his neck. His teasing was flirtatious. His nudity was… very apparent. So John can’t help but wonder:

Where the hell is the line?

Frankly, he’s not sure he wants to know.

xxxxxx

The wood of the dock creaks as the wake from a passing boat laps at the bulkhead. In the distance, waiters load a rather large sailboat with various coolers and platters. 

Sherlock realizes with a sinking horror that that is what is meant by ‘Young People on the Bay.’ They will literally be _on_ the Bay.

He’s regretting this decision immensely.

“Don’t like the water?” John teases and Sherlock decidedly does not harrumph.

“I like it from a distance.”

John slides his fingers through Sherlock’s and tugs him slightly closer. “I’ll make sure you don’t go overboard.”

Sherlock swallows hard and is about to ask why the man is suddenly being so much more demonstrative when laughter sounds behind him, growing louder as more of the group exits the inn. Ah. That’s why. Must make sure the audience gets what they came for. 

“It’s a passion of Elliot’s,” John offers (ignorant of Sherlock's inner crisis), pointing at a small, expertly teaked wooden boat in the slip in front of them as he steps away, but keeps their fingers interlocked.

Sherlock frowns at the non sequitur, but appreciates the craftsmanship. “He made that?”

“Mm hm. And he’s got another one whose restoration is halfway completed at home. Their house is only on the other side of the river. Sometimes it’s faster to travel by water.”

“I thought he whispered foreign policy into the President’s ear.”

“Well, everyone needs a hobby,” John replies with a wink. After all, Sherlock had told him his.

“And what’s yours?”

“My hobby?” John glances at his shoes and shrugs. “Don’t have one, really.”

“An ex-army danger addict without a hobby? I’ll alert Scotland Yard.”

John’s head snaps up and his hand shields his eyes from the sun. He really must invest in some sunglasses. “How do you know I’m a danger addict?”

Sherlock presses close, feeling John’s breath hitch against his chest. “Lucky guess.”

John licks his lips, eyes darting from Sherlock’s to his mouth and back again. “Ever done a wedding before?” 

“Nope,” he replies popping the ‘p.’

“Why this one?” John breathes and Sherlock closes the distance.

“Why not?” It’s a cop out of an answer but he’s already feeling so untethered. To explain why he said ‘yes’ to John when he’s said ‘no’ to scores of others is to explain something Sherlock himself does not quite understand.

John’s sun-chapped lips ghost across his and Sherlock pulls him closer with a hand on his lower back. Desire sparks like a match set to fuel in his gut and what started out as just a gentle press has become a full-on snog, with John moaning into his mouth while Sherlock sucks on his bottom lip.

“You lovebirds are going to need a sweater!” Elliot calls from the veranda where he’s ushering people towards the dock and the men jump, but keep their foreheads pressed together.

“Christ,” John groans, panting against Sherlock’s skin as the taller man attempts to collect himself, running his fingers in small circles on John's lower back. 

“What on earth is a ‘sweater?” he finally breathes and John laughs, pressing a quick kiss on Sherlock’s chin as he reluctantly pulls away.

“He means ‘jumper.’ And he’s right. We should have another layer out there.”

But before Sherlock can reply that he doesn’t own _sweaters_ , a catcall comes from behind and they turn to find Clara and Harry waltzing down the brick path.

“I saw that,” Clara gloats, pointing between the two of them. “And if that that happens on the boat, steer clear of the Captain’s quarters. Harry and I have already laid claim to that one.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John replies, taking the basket that Harry’s carrying full of cheese, baguettes, and crackers.

“Why is everything so… pastel?” Sherlock questions as he gets a good look at the girls’ outfits and John snorts.

“It’s called ‘preppy,” Harry drawls. “You get used to it after a while. I spent my first three dates with Clara in sunglasses. Couldn’t bear the glare coming off her skirt.”

“Didn’t mind it on your bedroom floor, though,” John replies without missing a beat and Harry’s jaw drops.  

“Cheeky bastard,” she replies as Clara gives him a shove. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Sherlock smiles genuinely as Clara holds out her elbow for him to take, but the smile dies when Mary comes bounding down the path a moment later.

“Elliot asked me to pass these on to you,” she says, tone so chipper it makes Sherlock wince. She holds one jumper out for Sherlock, which Clara takes instead with a loaded look in Mary’s direction as Mary steps forward and gently drapes the other over John’s shoulders, tying the sleeves across his chest.

“There. Now you look like a proper sailor,” she replies with a bright smile as Sherlock’s eyes narrow further.

John gaze shifts to him for a moment before he clears his throat and offers a meager “thanks” in return. Sherlock tries not to physically bristle at Clara’s side.

Alec, thankfully, saves the moment as he comes sprinting down the dock, arms laden with beer bottles. “For you, for you, for you, for you” he begins, passing them out to John, Mary, Clara, and Sherlock. “Not you,” he says, pressing a kiss to Harry’s cheek instead before stepping back and admiring his handiwork. “Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!”

‘Boat’ is really a poor term for the vessel they’re about to board. Sherlock has only been on one ship larger than it and it was a private yacht in the Mediterranean owned by an oil tycoon. The company on this one is decidedly better.

“Told you we’d get you on the water one day, John.” Clara nudges him as they walk up the gangway to the boat deck and John rolls his eyes.

“I’m quite content with London and it’s lack of open sea, thank you very much.” 

“You are aware you live on an island, right?” Alec asks, taking a long pull of his beer and ducking the life vest John throws at him.

“It's a large island, you wanker.”

Sherlock chuckles and allows Clara to help her mother set up the feast in the center of the schooner as he joins John to lean against the railing.

“Not bad,” Sherlock murmurs, staring up at the mast that towers above them before taking in the boat’s sheer length. “Must be at least twenty meters.”

“Twenty-two and a half,” Elliot replies as he steps up to them, fixing the jumper Mary placed on John’s shoulders.

“Joining us?” John asks and the older man shakes his head.

“I don’t think I qualify for ‘Young People on the Bay.”

“Bollocks,” John replies as Elliot sighs theatrically.

“Well someone has to keep Adelaide company. She’s got her sights set on a bellboy.”

“Oh Christ,” John groans.

“Quite,” Elliot replies. “You two have fun. I’ll keep fighting the good fight. Olivia?” He calls for his wife and disappears into the crowd.

John settles into Sherlock’s side, and Sherlock allows his arm to come around John’s waist tugging him closer.

“So how ridiculous do I look in this jumper?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything…” Sherlock trails off and John laughs as he pulls it from his shoulders and tosses it in Harry’s open canvas bag. 

“So who are all these people?” he asks, running his fingers up and down John’s side as the ropes are loosened from the cleats on the dock.

“I thought you read my dossier?” John teases, taking a sip of his beer.

“Oh don’t be difficult,” Sherlock retorts, taking one as well. It’s surprisingly good, this American brew. Not that he has much to compare it to.

“All right,” John begins, pointing towards a short man at the bow flirting with a bridesmaid. “That is my cousin Tim. Four years younger. Moved to America when he was eight. Haven’t seen him since. Over there,” he points to a woman perhaps three years older, “is my only other cousin, Allison. She and Harry got on, but I accidentally set her hair on fire when I was eleven and she’s hated me ever since. The rest belong to Clara and Alec. And this is what they do,” he says, sweeping the arm that isn’t around Sherlock’s waist across the deck: “sail and drink.”

“I didn’t realize this was your world,” Sherlock murmurs and John scoffs, going serious for a moment.

“It’s not. My world is a tiny bedsit in Clapham and a job at a surgery that I hate.”

Sherlock turns to him and presses a kiss into his hair, if only to erase the bitterness in his voice. “Why not work trauma at a hospital?”

“Who wants a surgeon with shaky hands, right?” John asks and Sherlock pulls away, staring at him intently.

“Your hands don’t shake.” The statement is fierce and incontrovertible, and John is staring at him like he personally turned water into wine.

“How – ” But before John can fully form the question, Clara is bounding up and grabbing Sherlock’s hand.

“Sherlock, come here. I want to introduce you to someone.”

He’s pulled away as the boat leaves the cove and enters the bay, knowing that were his life ever in danger, he would gladly put his fate in the hands of the man he’s rapidly, terrifyingly, falling for.

xxxxxx

John waves as Sherlock get dragged off with a smile and an encouraging ‘you’ve got this,’ as he disappears behind some rigging to meet the masses. Too late, he realizes that Harry has been watching him and his undoubtedly besotted expression.

“I can’t believe you get to shag that bastard,” she says as she sidles up to him and leans against the railing. “You should send God a bottle of wine. Or a quiche.”

John chuckles and watches as Mary animatedly talks to one of the other bridesmaids now that Sherlock is out of his field of vision. And of course, ever-knowing Harry follows his gaze once more and sighs heavily.

“John, what are you doing?”

He gives a mirthless laugh and shakes his head. “I don’t know. Being an idiot.”

“Par for the course then. How long have you and Sherlock been together?”

John shrugs. What was the answer they decided on? “Few months.”

“You don’t look at him like he’s a rebound,” she says quietly and the fierce defensiveness that immediately rises within takes him by surprise.

“He’s not and I won’t have you thinking of him as such."

Harry looks taken aback, but then to his surprise, she smiles. “Good boy. I knew I raised you better than that.”

“Seven minutes older, Harry,” he reminds. “Seven minutes.”

“May as well be a lifetime,” she teases, tugging on his collar as she watches Mary once more.

“She keeps glancing over here, which means she wants to talk to you but daren’t do it while I’m standing here.”

“Because you might punch her in the face?”

“Because I might punch her in the face,” Harry agrees with a smile that’s sweetly evil. “So, the question is, do you want me to stay and keep her at bay or do you want me to go and let the vultures descend?”

John stares at the boat deck and listens to the rigging strain against the wind.

“Go,” he whispers.

“Okay,” she simply replies. “But know what you’re doing, okay?”

He nods, but that’s apparently not good enough for her and she grabs his chin and forces him to look at her.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“I know.” He manages a smile and kisses her on the cheek. “You’re a good sister.”

“I know,” she cheekily replies. “We should have a signal in case she gets handsy again and you need rescuing.”

“Just listen for the splash because I will have thrown myself overboard.”

“You can’t swim!” Harry calls as she saunters away to entertain some more guests as John follows up with a petulant, “Yes I can!”

And sure enough, seeing her opening, Mary glides over and hands him another beer just as he downs the dregs of the first one.

“Thanks.”

“Having fun?” she asks, eyes quickly darting around the boat, no doubt trying to clock where Sherlock is.

“Yeah, yeah I am,” he replies and is surprised to find he’s being honest. When he’d received the invitation, he could think of hundreds of places he’d rather be, one of which was back in Helmand. But this has been… good.

“So things are going well?” she asks, clearly fishing, but there’s worry in her eyes, as if her sudden departure from his life had left him a shell of a man, pining for her return. It was one of the biggest reasons he actually dialed Sherlock’s number, because if Afghanistan didn’t make him that man, then he sure as hell isn’t letting Mary Morstan do it either.

“Yeah, things are good at the surgery. Probably looking to move soon. Flat is a bit dodgy, but yeah. Things are going well."

“Good. I’m glad.” She places her hand on his cheek and part of him, the part that remembers her touch during cold nights and warm afternoons, leans into it as he closes his eyes. “You look good.”

“You too,” he breathes as he opens his eyes, but he knows this is wrong. And if his gut instinct wasn’t enough to convince him then surely the pained expression on Sherlock’s face was.

But the second it’s there, it’s gone, and Sherlock is offering the woman he’s talking to a grim smile as he makes his way to the ladder leading below deck.

John steps away from Mary’s hand as his stomach plummets like an anchor.

Fuck.

xxxxxx

Sherlock had attributed his sudden wooziness to the sight of John talking to Mary, or perhaps to a bad oyster, but it seems his sea legs are proving to be more than unreliable. He just manages to make it to the toilet in the Captain’s quarters before emptying the contents of his lunch into the small bowl.

At least Harry and Clara hadn’t gotten to the room yet, he thinks a little hysterically as his body rebels once more. 

“Sherlock?” John calls, but Sherlock only heaves harder.

_John, John, beautiful John. John who followed him. Want John. Need John._

“Oh love.” The words pang something hidden deep behind Sherlock’s ribcage as he rests his sweaty forehead on the cool porcelain. John's hand is steady on his back, rubbing comforting circles between his shoulder blades as he presses a kiss to the top of his head. "I'm here," he murmurs and Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut at the sudden swell of emotion he feels. He's not used to being this exposed. Being this vulnerable. Particularly in front of his clients, but John doesn't seem to mind. He remains a steady presence beside him, left hand on his back while his right reaches under and gently holds the cramping muscles of Sherlock's stomach. "I'm here," he repeats and Sherlock moans, letting his hand cover John's over his abdomen and threading their fingers together. 

They stay like that for a few minutes and Sherlock only vomits once more, before reaching up with a shaky hand and flushing the toilet. He attempts to stand, but John is quick to press into his side, getting one arm around his waist and looping Sherlock's around his shoulders as he slowly walks them to the queen sized bed.

“Easy, easy,” he says as he lowers him down, disappearing quickly only to return a second later and press a cold cloth to Sherlock’s forehead.

He’ll deny the sound of relief that leaves his mouth until his dying day.

“That’s it,” John murmurs, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s sweaty curls. “Not one for boats then, are you.”

Sherlock merely moans in response, feeling the dip of the bed as John takes a seat next to him and cards his fingers through his hair.

“I can ask them to drop us back at the inn.”

“No,” he croaks. “Don’t want to ruin the fun.”

“Sherlock, you’re ill and continuing to be on this boat is not going to make you better.”

But he shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut at the momentary dizziness. “I’ll be fine,” he murmurs, burying his face in John's thigh. 

John makes a sympathetic noise and runs the pad of his thumb across Sherlock’s eyebrows. "I'm sorry, love. Maybe we should get you up top. Fresh breeze and all that.”

Sherlock merely groans. "Moving is not an option right now." Also, people are up there. 

“Okay. Then we’ll stay here.”

“You don’t have to stay,” he says as much as his brain is screaming at him to be silent.

“’Course I’m staying,” John replies in an incredulous tone, as if Sherlock had just suggested the earth was flat. Ridiculous notion.

His fingers continue to work their magic and Sherlock finds his eyes drooping, cheek resting in John’s lap.

"M'sorry," he manages. 

"What do you have to be sorry for? I should be the one apologizing. I dragged you on this bloody thing." 

"The view was nice." Sherlock frown and bites back another heave. "What I saw of it.”

The fingers pause in their movement and Sherlock tenses, already bracing for what’s to come.

“Speaking of what you saw…” John trails off and Sherlock holds his breath.

“It’s really fine, John. None of my business.” 

“Of course it’s your business,” he quietly replies. “Here and now, I’m your business. And you’re mine.” He bends down and presses another kiss into Sherlock’s hair. “Which is why I’m not going back up there until you can join me.” And his conviction is so fierce, yet his voice so soft that Sherlock can’t help but smile against his trousers.

No one else would do this for him. Any sign of illness would be seen as a weakness. An opportunity to get their money back, no matter how much of himself Sherlock had already given.

John’s not like that. John is good. John is…

But the word doesn't quite come as he drifts off, cocooned in the only embrace he's ever felt comfortable lowering his guard around.  

Next thing he knows, he’s waking to someone gently shaking his ankle and he blinks his eyes open to discover that, at some point, John had scooted down and they’d both fallen asleep. His cheek is on John's chest and John's fingers are still threaded through his hair, their legs tangled together. He glances toward the end of the bed to find Harry Watson putting her phone back in her pocket. He has a feeling there’s a picture or two on there he probably doesn’t want the world to see.

“I thought we had dibs on the Captain’s quarters,” she jokes as she places her hands on her hips.

“Snooze, you lose,” John groggily replies. “What’s wrong?”

Harry snorts. “You’re still on a boat, silly, and we’ve docked. Everyone out.”

John blinks down at Sherlock and smiles a smile that Sherlock can’t help but return. “You all right?” he asks, pushing those curls off his forehead again.

Sherlock hums an affirmative as he manages to get himself into a sitting position. The room only spins slightly. 

Harry presses a cool hand to his cheek and he leans into it like a cat. “Poor thing. Feel better?”

“A bit, thanks.”

She helps him to his feet and he sways back into John’s sturdy chest.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock doesn’t doubt him for a moment. Not with those arms around him.

Between the three of them, they get topside and down the gangway as most of the guests, save for a few stragglers, file into the inn.

“John and Sherlock!” Alec calls from the lawn. “A few of us are going into town for a drink. Come!”

John is already shaking his head, but Sherlock interrupts. "Go. I'll be fine." 

“Sherlock – ”

“John, you’re the brother of the bride. The Best Man. You can’t not go.” 

“But you – ”

“Will be asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.”

"John, come  _on_!" Clara calls as Mary stands beside her, looking hopeful. Hateful woman.

The bride on the other side of John, however, is remarkably silent, letting her brother make this decision on his own without added pressure. Sherlock must give Harry Watson credit for that.

“Go,” Sherlock murmurs again, gently nudging him.

“Only if you let me help you into bed.”

“I’d never say no to that,” he replies naughtily and Harry snorts on his other side.

“Now I _know_ you’re feeling better,” John replies with a grin as he glances at his sister. “Give me five minutes to get him settled and I’ll meet you out front?”

“Settled,” she replies skeptically with air quotes.

“If I was getting him truly settled, I’d ask for more than five minutes, thank you very much,” John hotly replies and Harry scrunches her nose as if only now realizing they’re discussing her brother’s sex life.

Harry lets go and Sherlock leans more of his weight on John than is strictly necessary, but the man seems up for the challenge. The walk inside is a slow one, but neither seems to be in any rush.

“You’re sure you’re all right with this?”

“Of course, darling,” Sherlock teases with a smile and a kiss to John’s head, before turning serious. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Of course, you nutter. Honestly, I’d rather be here with you watching crap telly than out there drinking my face off.”

“Please don’t,” Sherlock murmurs as they make their way down the hall to their room. “I quite like your face.”

He feels John smile against his chest as the man wrestles the key into the lock, nearly toppling them into the room.

Sherlock lets go, feeling strong enough to make his way to the bed on his own and sits, toeing off his shoes as John gets him a glass of water from the sink.

“Right. I’ve got my phone on me. If you need anything at all, you call.” He bends down and Sherlock manages to get out a “No, wait” before John’s lips are sealed on his.

“Mm,” John grimaces. “Vomit. Lovely.”

“I tried to warn you.”

John shrugs as he places another kiss on Sherlock’s temple and heads for the door. “Couldn’t help myself.”

Sherlock waits until the door shuts before getting up to grab his toothbrush and finally glance at his pale complexion in the mirror.

He is in so over his head.

xxxxxx

Three hours later finds John carrying a passed-out Clara to her room, despite being more than a bit pissed himself, because Alec had swanned off with one of barmaids, while Harry does nothing but giggle and snap photos at his side. Typical.

“Be helpful for once and get the door,” he grunts, shifting Clara in his arms. 

“Sir, yes, sir.” Harry mock salutes as she slides the key in the lock.

“You’re lucky we didn’t run," he hiccups, "into Elliot and Olivia.”

“Please,” Harry snorts. “This is _nothing_ compared to what Olivia gets up to on any given Thursday.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John groans as he lowers Clara to the bed as carefully as possible while Harry unclasps her sandals. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it from here. Thanks, baby brother.”

“Seven minutes, Harry,” he retorts and his stance would have been so much firmer if he hadn’t slurred his words.

“Go to bed, you lush.”

“Aye, aye, madam.” John mock salutes back and exits, winding his way through the halls until he gets to his room, vaguely patting his back pockets as he feels his wallet and phone in one and a rather large envelope in the other. Eventually the room key topples out onto the carpeted floor and he bends over (bracing himself on the wall) to pick it up with fingers that seem to not want to work.

Standing up, his stomach flips knowing that Sherlock is on the other side and it’s either his excitement or his inebriation that has him needing two tries to get the key in the lock.

“John?” the groggy voice asks as the door swings open and John smiles despite himself.

“It’s me.”

“Mm,” Sherlock groans, flopping back on the bed. “How was the night?”

“Good,” John replies as he toes off his shoes and strips to his pants, tripping slightly over his trousers. “Missed you.”

Sherlock smiles against the pillow. “Did you?”

John hums and climbs into bed. “How are you feeling?”

“All better.” Sherlock rolls over, flops an arm across John’s midsection, and freezes. “You forgot your pajamas.”

“Too hot.”

“There’s air conditioning.”

“I can put them on if you’d like,” John says as he starts to move out of the bed, but Sherlock gets a hand on his wrist before he can get too far.

“Stay.”

“Okay,” John breathes, sliding back under the covers and laying nearly nose-to-nose with Sherlock.

They stare at each other for a moment before Sherlock leans in and brushes his nose across John’s cheek.

“Clean your teeth. You’ll taste like liquor."

John grins even as desire pools heavy in his groin. “And why would _you_ care what _I_ taste like?”

But he doesn’t get an answer. No, because Sherlock is surging forward and crashing their lips together, hand coming around to cup the back of John’s head as John groans and slips his tongue in to press against Sherlock’s own.

Sherlock moans and hooks a leg over John’s as John’s hand on his lower back brings them together from nose to toes.

“Oh God, Sherlock,” John breaks away and inhales sharply as Sherlock immediately goes to work on his neck. He scrabbles for the bottom of Sherlock’s shirt and the taller man halts the proceedings just long enough to get it over his head. “You are so beautiful.”

A crease forms between Sherlock’s brows and it’s so troubled, so disbelieving, that John has to lean forward and kiss it away.

“Are you sure about this?” Sherlock croaks as John cups his cheek before guiding his hand to the waistband of his pants.

“Oh God, yes.”

 

The schooner:

The view: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I wish I could take credit for the line about buying God a bottle of wine or a quiche, but it's totally lifted from the film. Cousin TJ, played by the hilarious Sarah Parish, is hands down the best thing about that movie.


	3. The Unraveling

_“Oh God, yes.”_

_"John," Sherlock breathes as he slides his hand in John's pants and cradles the curve of his bum, slowly inching the waistband down to reveal every inch of skin John's lips are keeping him too busy to see._

_There will be time enough for that, he thinks as he traces the trail of hair from Sherlock's navel to his pajamas and cups the hardness waiting for him. Sherlock bucks and John makes a noise of desperation he can't even bother to be embarrassed by._

_"These. Off. Now," he grunts, surrendering to his baser instincts as he tugs at Sherlock's pajama trousers and the other man is only too happy to oblige, shimmying the cotton down his legs and kicking them to the foot of the bed. "These too," he urges, sliding his hand under Sherlock's pants to grab his delectable bum._

_“You first.” Sherlock has gotten John's own pants down to his thighs and his cock is digging into Sherlock's hip as John tries to grind closer, smearing precome against that pale skin._

_Sherlock makes a noise of frustration and lets go (much to John's dismay) but then those long fingers are quickly removing his pants, revealing Sherlock in all his glory, and really, John can't argue with that. He quickly shucks his own, tossing them somewhere on the other side of the room, and then they're finally coming together as they always should have, with absolutely nothing between them._

_They let out simultaneous groans as John gets Sherlock's leg hooked over his hip and slots his own between Sherlock’s, letting the other man ride his thigh as his knee tucks up gently beneath his balls. Their cocks line up perfectly and John desperately tries to keep his wits about him as Sherlock plunders his mouth. His fingers card through John's hair and pull as John gets a hand around them and strokes._

_"You are so beautiful," he whispers, squeezing tighter, causing Sherlock to throw his head back against the pillow and grind harder against him._

_"Yes, that's it," John breathes, rolling them over so he's on top and settling himself between Sherlock’s spread legs. He sucks at Sherlock's pulse point as the other man digs his fingers into John's shoulders and continues rolling their hips together._

_"In me," he murmurs, cupping John's face in his hands and making sure their eyes meet. "I need you in me."_

_"Yeah?" John asks, blinking owlishly, because oh god he truly wasn't expecting this when he got into bed in only his pants. Maybe some snogging and a grope, but not this._

_"Yes."_

_John nods. "Okay. Yes." He kisses him soundly and breathes "God, yes" across his lips._

_Sherlock flips them, straddling John's thighs and grinds down onto his cock as it fits perfectly between his cheeks. John's eyes flutter shut as he grabs hold of the headboard with one hand and Sherlock's thigh with his other, biting his lip. Every undulation pulls a grunt from him that he's helpless to silence._

_"I don't have – I didn't bring – " he pants because rational thought is not something he’s capable of, but Sherlock bends down and nips at his lips, simultaneously pulling John's knees up so he can plant his feet on the bed._

_"My bag," he groans against a particularly well placed thrust now that John has some leverage and flails his arm towards the closet. "Outside pocket."_

_"That means I have to get up," John murmurs, sitting up and bending his knees further so he and Sherlock are chest to chest, rocking back and forth._

_"I could get up," Sherlock replies, moving down John’s jaw to nibble on his earlobe but the man shakes his head._

_"Don't you dare move."_

_"Well someone has to," he gasps as John's fingers wander down to his crack, feeling his own cock peeking out between his cheeks. "Do it."_

_"Not without lube," John replies, thankful that not all of his blood has gone south. He_ _flips them over again and drags himself away with an exaggerated groan, stumbling off the bed and tripping over to the closet. "Outside pocket?"_

_Sherlock hums and John makes the mistake of glancing back to find the man casually stroking himself, precome leaking copiously from the tip of his long cock._

_"Christ." John shakes his head to center himself and continues the search, quickly finding a tube of lube and a box of condoms. He tosses both on the bed and pounces, landing between Sherlock's spread thighs and batting his hand away so he can take over even as his own neglected cock hangs heavy between his legs._

_"John," Sherlock moans, hips moving in time with the other man's strokes._

_"That's it," John breathes, uncapping the top of the lube with his free hand – an impressive feat given how much alcohol is running through his system. He rubs the gel between his fingers and reaches down behind Sherlock's bollocks to press on his perineum._

_Sherlock bucks so hard, he nearly knees John in the jaw._

_"Easy, easy," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of Sherlock's thigh as the other man whines. "I've got you." His finger circles Sherlock hole before sliding in to the first knuckle._

_Sherlock's jaw drops and his eyes roll as his grip on John's thigh tightens. "Yessss."_

_John smiles and feels warmth flare in his chest for this gorgeous creature spread out before him like a feast. The idiotic and insecure part of his brain tells him that Sherlock is so amenable because it’s just part of the job. John isn’t special. He’s just one of many, as much as it angers him to think about it – to think about who else Sherlock might have done this with. But then Sherlock bats his hand away from his cock so he can thread their fingers together and John stares, because something about this feels different. More intimate, somehow._

_He gets another finger in next to the first, twisting his wrist and putting that medical training to good use. Sherlock wails and John sincerely hopes the walls have been reinforced since the place was originally built._

_"Found it," he grins, squeezing Sherlock's hand before letting go so he can focus on stretching him open. He gives himself a cursory stroke, promptly regretting it when he nearly goes over the edge, but then Sherlock is reaching down and taking hold of his hand once more._

_"I'm ready," he says, eyes as clear as a summer afternoon._

_"Okay," John breathes, leaning down and pressing a relatively chaste kiss on those lips. "Like this?"_

_Sherlock nods and wraps his legs around John's waist, waiting impatiently while John gets a condom on, before gasping as John's cock merely rests at his opening. John nearly whimpers at the first feel of that tight heat around his tip, before pressing in slowly, inch by inch, and making a noise as if the air had been knocked out of him. Sherlock moans loudly as John slides home and tightens his grip on his shoulders._

_"All right?" John asks, holding himself still even as sweat beads at his temples._

_"Yes. Move."_

_"Bossy," John teases but rolls his hips anyway, causing both men to groan. "Oh God, this isn't going to last long."_

_"Don't care," Sherlock moans, bucking up to meet every one of John's thrusts._

_John grabs the headboard in one hand as his other slides under Sherlock's shoulder blades, pressing him close and cradling his sweat-damp neck. Sherlock rakes his fingers down John's back and brings their foreheads together to breathe each other's air._

_John shifts his hips, hiking Sherlock's leg a bit higher and the man's eyes shoot open as he keens._

_"That's it," John says with a grin as he picks up the pace, clinging to what little control he has left. "Right there. C'mon, Sherlock."_

_"John, I can't – "_

_“Yes you can. Oh god.” He snaps his hips and squeezes his eyes shut because if he looks at the ecstasy on Sherlock’s face, he will lose what little composure he has._

_“John, harder.”_

_“Yes. Anything.”_

_“Look at me,” Sherlock requests and John obliges, promptly sucking in his breath as he’s pinned in that gaze like a dart to a board._

_He lets go of the headboard and gets a hand around Sherlock's cock, pumping once, then twice. "Come for me."_

_"Oh, JOHN!"_

_“SHERLOCK!”_

He shoots awake from the most erotic dream he’s ever had with the most spectacular headache known to mankind and a rather impressive hard-on to boot. He groans and buries his head in the pillow, willing himself not to rut against the mattress. 

The bed next to him is empty, but the sheets aren't yet cold, and John is thankful for small mercies as he takes a look at the state of the room. There's a trail of clothes from the door to the bed and his pants are hanging on the lamp in the corner. Wait -  He looks under the covers, and yep, he's definitely naked. And still hard. 

The lock clicks and the door is kicked open a moment later by Sherlock who balances a full tray of breakfast with a newspaper tucked under one arm and a flower between his teeth. He looks ridiculous and abashed and  _adorable_ and John finds himself swallowing hard and tugging the blankets just a bit tighter around himself as Sherlock hip-checks the door shut once more. 

"That is incredibly impressive,” John laughs as he pushes himself up to lean against the headboard and study him. The man looks surprisingly laid back in charcoal chinos and a navy polo. 

Sherlock sticks his chin out, silently indicating that John should take the flower, which he does. "I made friends with the chef."

"Of course you did,” John sighs, sweeping the flower’s petals across Sherlock’s envious skin as he puts the tray down. John glances under the covers again. “So, did I not put pajamas on last night?" 

"You claimed you were hot," Sherlock chuckles. 

"I am so sorry," John replies, tucking the blankets in around his waist as Sherlock looks at him oddly. 

"For what?" 

"For this," John gestures to himself and then to the trail of clothes. "For whatever I did last night.”

Sherlock goes still for a moment before a tight smile, so unlike the real thing, is promptly plastered on his face. “Nothing. You didn't do anything.”

But John so very clearly did, if the expression of barely concealed hurt is anything to go by. 

"Sherlock." 

"You should take a shower. I suspect you're feeling rather awful. I suppose I underestimated how much you drank last night. Clearly you did as well. The dancing lesson starts in less than an hour. Harry expects you to attend," he rambles, but John cuts him off. 

"Sherlock," he says again more urgently, leaning forward as much as the blanket will allow and still protect his modesty, taking hold of his wrist. "What did I do?" 

But Sherlock merely shakes his head. "Like I said, nothing. Hurry, you'll be late." He sits on the bed and grabs a piece of toast, hiding behind the newspaper he opens with a sharp flick of his wrist.  

John stays for a moment, trying to see him through the front page of  _The Washington Post_ but it seems that a bolded headline on the day's atrocities is all he's going to get for his troubles. He takes it for the dismissal it is. 

"Right," he murmurs, slowly scooting out from under the covers, but since it doesn't seem like Sherlock is going to emerge anytime soon, he walks to the loo without bothering to grab a dressing gown. 

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong, but John can't examine it closely because every time he tries to think, pain explodes behind his eyes like someone is taking a jackhammer to his brain. It's a poor excuse for not facing his problems, but nausea is roiling in his stomach and he doesn't think the hangover has much to do with it. 

He turns the water on and steps in before it truly gets hot, counting it as a meager part of his penance for whatever colossal fuck up he's managed this time. 

Five minutes later, he's just washing the shampoo from his hair when the shower curtain is violently yanked back and he jumps, nearly slipping as he spins on the slick tile. 

"What the hell is this?" Sherlock spits, holding an envelope just open enough to see the wad of American bills inside. 

John blinks the water out of his eyes and frowns. "I have absolutely no idea." 

"No idea, hm?" Sherlock shakes his head. "Well I suppose forgetting a trip to the cash machine is just one more lost event to add to the list." 

"What are you talking about?" he asks, squinting as the shampoo runs into his eyes. 

“This was in the back pocket of your trousers. If I was going to charge you for sex, I would have told you beforehand. I thought I explained that,” he sneers.

"I didn't – I don't," John splutters. “I wasn’t expecting… anything.”

“Right," Sherlock laughs. "Is that why you came to bed practically naked? And just so you know, given the exchange rate, you’re about three-hundred short.”

“Well, nothing happened so what does it matter!” John snaps hotly, embarrassment flooding his cheeks, just as Sherlock throws the envelope against the wall and roars, “Because it did!"

Their voices echo off the pristine washroom, their harsh panting barely heard over the still-running water. 

Sherlock has gone pale and John's voice, when it comes, is infinitely small. 

“What?" He feels like all of the blood has left every limb in his body.

Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose. “We slept together. In the biblical sense. I’m glad to know it was so memorable for you.” Then he turns, giving John the rigid line of his back, and gestures toward the scattered money on the floor. "Don't worry about it. First time's free for new clients," he spits before marching out.

The heavy slam of the door shakes the walls a minute later. 

John stands in the shower until the water runs cold, and even then he remains long after, shivering in an effort to feel something other than the empty numbness Sherlock left behind.

xxxxxx

_Stupid, stupid, **stupid**. _

He told himself not to get involved. Not to get attached. To be like Mycroft and freeze everyone out, but  _no_ , he had to go and develop  _feelings._ How pedestrian. He's Sherlock Holmes, not some pining, simpering teenage girl. He does not  _need_ John Watson in his life.

_"You are so beautiful."_

John's words come back to him in that breathless, lust-filled tone and he practically growls as he stalks across the lawn and kicks a forlorn dandelion as if it had done him a personal wrong. He did not _ask_ for this. He does not _want_ it. 

 _Yes you do_ that quiet voice that he hardly ever hears and so rarely listens to taunts.  _Of course you do._ John is good. Kind. Dangerous. Fun. John is stability. He is the opposite of boredom.

And he didn't remember the most fantastic night Sherlock's had in recent memory. 

"Sherlock!" a voice calls and he sighs before he can wreak havoc on a hedge of rhododendrons. Now what? 

He turns to find Clara jogging across the lawn to catch up with him and she must clock the thunderstorm on his face because her jolly smile falters for a moment. 

"All right?" she asks, placing a hand on his tense forearm and he gives her a stiff nod in reply. 

"Fine." 

"Well, we're an odd number for this silly dancing lesson. Do you mind joining?" 

Oh Christ on a biscuit. This is the last thing he needs. But Clara is looking at him with such hope because Harry really is a disaster about dancing which is why they’ve left it to the last minute and, going against all rational thought, he finds himself wondering for a fleeting moment if her brother is just as hopeless as she is.

_Don’t go there._

“I’m sure we can find someone else,” Clara says in response to Sherlock’s silence. 

“No, it’s…” he trails off and swallows. “Glad to.”

“Great, they’ve just set up in the dining room.” She holds her hand out and he takes it, finding great comfort in the reassuring squeeze she gives his fingers. She may not know what’s wrong, but something clearly is.

It’s odd to have someone care without question.

She guides him across the lawn, onto the patio and through the French doors into the dining room. He holds his breath as he registers the teacher already berating Alec for some such thing as Mary chats with Olivia in the corner while Adelaide sits at their side, nursing a glass of chardonnay. Sherlock has to give her credit. It’s not even noon; Elliot was clearly wise to give the area a wide berth. Finally, his eyes scan the rest of the room – ah yes.

John is in the opposite corner with Harry, head in his hands, as Harry speaks to him in very hushed, angry tones if the finger she's jabbing in his face is anything to go by. John is nodding yet taking the punishment silently, and it’s a sight to see because if Sherlock has learned one thing, it’s that John Watson doesn’t take things lying down.

The sound of the door closing brings both Watsons' gazes to him and he can't stand Harry's pitying look or John resembling a kicked puppy, so he ducks his head and allows Clara to lead him over to meet the dance instructor. Just one look at her shoes tells Sherlock that though she is qualified, she has nothing new to teach him.

“Sherlock, this is Madeleine. Madeleine, Sherlock. Partner of the Best Man,” she offers, and Sherlock’s mind supplies  _Not for long._

“Lovely to meet you,” she greets, shaking his hand before clapping to get everyone to round up in a circle. "Well the wedding is tomorrow," she glances reproachfully at Harry and Clara, "so we will do the best we can in the time that we have." 

Harry snorts and Clara nudges her. John stands on Harry's other side looking like a man about to walk the plank. Mary stands to John's right looking only too happy to be there. 

Sherlock stares at his shoes and hates the world. 

"All eyes will be on the brides," Madeleine continues, "Watching. Smiling. Taking bets on how long the marriage will last." 

Alec is the one who snorts this time and Clara manages a rude hand gesture before Olivia notices and glares as only a mother can.

"So, let's partner up and get started!" 

He feels John's eyes immediately land on him, but he turns to Adelaide and bows. "May I have this dance?" 

She giggles as she takes his hand. "By all means." 

Harry and Clara have partnered, obviously, and Alec has asked his mother, which leaves: 

Mary and John. 

Okay, perhaps he didn't think this through.

Jealousy burns hot in his chest and he consciously has to remind himself not to grip Adelaide's frail fingers too tightly as he attempts to tamp down on his rage. "You've done this before," he manages after a moment, impressed, and she flicks her hand as if to say 'pish posh' before placing it back on his shoulder. 

"Not for decades." The saucy wink she gives him, though, suggests otherwise. 

They move fluidly around the room, Adelaide's age doing nothing to hinder her steps. Olivia seems to have whipped Alec into shape – his chin is high and his jokes are few as he leads her across the floor. Madeleine fixes Harry's arms where she leads Clara before moving onto John and Mary who seem to be having the most trouble. 

Sherlock tries not to take great delight in that fact and fails. 

Adelaide is telling him some such story about the 60s when Mary leans in and whispers something in John's ear. He smiles softly and pulls away, looking into her eyes and Sherlock closes his, because he can't bear to see the look that John gave him just the night before aimed at another person. 

"Switch!" Madeleine calls with a clap, breaking him from his misery as Harry spins herself into his arms, offering her aunt a kiss and a look that clearly says 'get lost' in the most respectful way possible. 

"Hey, stranger," she murmurs once they're alone, taking his left hand in her right with a loaded look. Sherlock swallows, wondering just how much she knows, as he glances around for the nearest escape route. 

At least John is now dancing with Clara.  _That_  he can handle. Alec is paired with Mary and neither looks particularly happy about it. Adelaide has retreated to the corner and her abandoned Chardonnay as Olivia keeps her company. 

"Why on earth did you leave this to the last minute?" he asks in an effort to make conversation and divert that all-knowing Watson gaze. 

Harry shrugs. "I'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda girl." 

"I don't doubt it," he smiles before sobering. "How much do you know?" 

She cocks her head and holds his hand tighter, as if he might take flight. "Enough." 

"Enough...?" he trails off because a two-syllable word does not exactly narrow things down.  

Harry sighs and glances over at John, smiling softly as he and Clara trip over each other. "Enough to know that my brother paid you to be here," she says, meeting his gaze once more as he sucks in a breath. "Enough to know that he made a colossal mistake last night, though he was relatively vague on the details. Enough to know that his mistake hurt you, badly, and that despite the fact that this might have started off just for show, that is definitely not the case anymore." She raises an eyebrow, as if challenging him to dispute it. "That seems enough to be going on for the moment, don't you think?" 

"Yes," he whispers as, for the first time, he stumbles to the music. 

"Hey Johnno," Alec calls from the other side of the room. "Hope you didn't lose all that cash you took out," he teases as John goes ashen, losing step with the beat. 

"What?" 

"The money. You made us stop at the ATM on the way home. I was tempted to steal it from you just to see what your reaction was, but... " he smiles fondly, no doubt thinking of the barmaid he bedded last night, "I got distracted." 

Olivia reaches over and smacks her son upside the head as he spins by her. Sherlock stares at John as the man lets go of Clara and bends over, placing his hands on his knees, looking ill. 

"Are you all right, love?" Adelaide asks from the corner and John holds up a hand as if to say 'yes,' but it would have been so much more convincing had it not been shaking. 

Harry stares at Sherlock with a look that clearly says, 'Well, what are you waiting for?' and Sherlock curses under his breath because he's not ready for this yet. 

“Trade you,” he reluctantly murmurs to Clara as he expertly spins Harry into her arms and takes her place at John’s side. “Stand up," he clips. "You’re making a scene.”

Not exactly the most sympathetic of openings, but it gets John upright once more. He clenches his jaw, refusing to look Sherlock in the eye.

“Though I suppose we could blame it on the hangover,” he continues, though it contains little bite.

John makes a noise that sounds like scoff that’s been strangled halfway through as Sherlock loops his arm around John's back, takes John's right hand, and places his left on his shoulder. 

“Follow my lead," he murmurs before he begins to gently move them around the room. "Breathe." 

John nods, but doesn't say anything. Sherlock lets him be, not even telling him to stop looking at his shoes though it's doing horrific things for his posture.

John remains quiet, though his pallor is looking better. With every passing minute, it seems less likely that he’ll vomit all over the dining room floor. Sherlock ignores the fact that Mary keeps glancing over, but takes great delight in Alec eventually giving up on her entirely and joining Adelaide at the bar. 

The lesson devolves after that – John steps away, murmuring something that sounds like an apology under his breath as he makes a bee line for the French doors, Madeleine tries to impart some last words of wisdom to Harry and Clara, and Sherlock and Mary lock eyes in a silent battle of wills as to which one will go after John. 

And though sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, this is one war he is more than eager to win.

xxxxxx

John inhales deeply as he makes his way towards the water, meandering down the dock until he stands on the end and peers into the water. He closes his eyes and listens to the banging of the halyards, trying to find peace amid the chaos within him. He truly doesn't think he could have bollocksed this up further, but as Harry pointed out not 30 minutes ago, he's really outdone himself this time. 

He sits on the dock and unties his shoes before stripping off his socks. It's high tide and he lets his feet dangle in the water, wincing a bit at the chilly May temperature. It's a welcome distraction from the past 12 hours as he churns the water up with his legs and watches a few crabs scurry off the pilings. 

 _"I miss you, John,"_ Mary had murmured in his ear and part of him, a part he hates with every fiber of his being, misses her too. 

She just left. Just like that. No explanation (at least not one that held water – something about time to find out who she truly was or some such bullshit). And John was left adrift with no mooring to tie himself to. 

Enter Sherlock. 

John doesn't even know where to begin there. He thought he knew what he wanted – if not a second chance with Mary then at least closure to move on. But this...

This was not in the plan.

He hears footsteps on the dock, the sound of Sherlock's posh shoes familiar by now, and he tenses before a bottle of beer appears in his peripheral vision. “What’s that?” he asks, glancing up at the man and squinting in the early afternoon sunlight. 

“I believe it’s called a peace offering,” that deep voice replies before he takes a seat next to him and places his own bottle on the dock so he can remove his shoes as well. His pale feet drop into the water next to John's and they both stare out over the horizon.

"I'm an idiot," John says after a moment, watching a distant osprey leave its nest. 

"Yes," is the only reply he gets and he lowers his head. 

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“I know you are.” He remains completely still as John tries and fails not to squirm beside him. 

“I should have known or, or seen. Something," he gives a mirthless laugh. "You’d think we would have made more of a mess.”

Sherlock smiles softly. “I cleaned us up.”

“God,” John mutters as he puts his head in his hands. “I thought it was a dream. A really... vivid,  _really good_  dream.”

Sherlock clears his throat as his ears go delightfully pink. “Good' would be an understatement.”

John chuckles but it sounds pathetic even to his own ears. "At least I got that detail down." 

"Indeed," Sherlock clips as he takes a sip of his beer and splashes his feet a bit.

"Can you forgive me?" John finally asks, but Sherlock merely stares at the water. 

"I've had worse." 

"Please don't tell me that," John says on the edge of a gasp, shaking his head and feeling ill again, his left hand clenching at his side. "Please don't tell me I'm like them." He doesn't deserve the reassurance, but he begs anyway. "Please." He wants – no,  _needs_  this to be different. He needs to know he's not alone in these feelings.

"John," Sherlock murmurs, shifting closer and placing his chin on John's shoulder. "You could never be like them." He tilts his head down and places a kiss through John's cotton shirt. "Of course you're forgiven, you idiot."

"Such an idiot," John concurs, laughing as a weight is lifted off his shoulders. He turns his head and nudges at Sherlock's nose until those full lips connect with his own. "I am sorry," he stresses again as he pulls away, because Sherlock needs to know. He needs to know he's deserving of so much more than what John's been able to give him.  

"I know," he replies, pressing a quick kiss on John's nose. "Now drink your beer before it goes warm." 

John chuckles and complies, flipping his hand over on his thigh and letting Sherlock decide whether or not to take it. 

"You told Harry," he says as he makes John’s day and slides their fingers together. His words aren’t accusing or reprimanding. They just are.

John nods and tightens his grip. "She deserved to know. And I needed someone to talk to. Who, you know, had all the facts." 

Sherlock rubs his thumb over John's knuckle and takes a sip of his beer. "When I told you I’d never done a wedding before, it isn’t because I’d never been asked. I just never said yes.”

John looks up and squints in the sun. “Why not?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Family gatherings. Happiness. Not really my area.”

“Why’d you say yes to me?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, but pauses. “There was something in your voice that day.”

“Desperation?”

Sherlock's mouth quirks but it's not quite a smile. “What happened with you and Mary?”

John shrugs, making him feel remarkably young. "She ended it. Needed time." 

"And you weren't ready for it to end." 

"It just came out of the blue, you know?" He sighs as he peels the label off the bottle with his thumb. "I had come to rely on her. When I got back from the war, I was... different. And I didn't necessarily like who I was. Mary changed that. Made me better. Happier. So when she went away..." 

"You didn't know how to be you without her." 

John hums before frowning. "How do you do that?" 

"What?" 

"Just... get me. I feel like I've been spilling my guts to you all week and yet I don’t know anything about you. In fairness, though,” he says, turning his head to study Sherlock’s profile, “you’d probably know everything about me without even having to ask.”

Sherlock shrugs and continues staring at the horizon. “I was born in Hertfordshire. I have a brother. He’s a pompous arsehole, though admittedly, he is responsible for our First Class accommodations on the flight over.”

“I’ll have to write him a note,” John grins as Sherlock groans and leans back to lie against the warm wood.

“Please don’t.”

John’s laughter fades as he settles himself down next to him. “What else?”

“I’m allergic to penicillin. Bit of a problem as a child seeing as I was so fascinated by germs." 

"And?" He's lapping it up like a starving man at a feast. He wants to know more, know everything, about the fascinating enigma next to him. 

“I’m not partial to clams.”

“You should have said,” John cries. “We’ve been forcing them down your throat all week.”

Sherlock chuckles. “I don’t mind oysters, though.”

“Aphrodisiacs,” John mutters without really thinking and Sherlock’s voice gets decidedly lower as he says, “I know,” which sets John laughing all over again. It takes him a minute to recover, but when he does, something heavy settles in his stomach.

“How’d you get into… this?” John bites his lip, but he needs to know. When they return to London, he's not sure he can contemplate never seeing this man again, but nor can he imagine sharing him with anyone else. John will be the first to admit that he's a selfish bastard.

Maybe that's why Mary left.

Sherlock shrugs, a move that looks foreign on his bespoke-clad shoulders. “It was interesting. Kept me from getting bored. And it was a good alternative to getting high.”

John lifts his head, but remains quiet. Sherlock continues staring at the sky.

"I was seventeen when I took my first hit. It was the start of an abusive relationship that I couldn't quite let go." 

"Most can't." 

“I’ve been clean for seven years.”

John doesn’t say anything – a ‘Good for you’ seems so patronizing – but he nudges his knee against Sherlock’s as if to say ‘I’m here. I’m proud. I’m acknowledging how hard that must have been.’

Sherlock turns on his side, a move that can't be comfortable on the unforgiving dock, and places his hand low on John's stomach. 

Despite the emotions of the day, John can't help the flare of arousal that spikes. He takes Sherlock's hand and threads their fingers together. Sherlock lifts them to his lips and kisses his knuckles.

“You might be the most fascinating person I’ve ever met.”

“Likewise,” John breathes.

“Care to give it another go?” Sherlock whispers and John nods, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

"If you'll have me." 

Sherlock's wide eyes narrow and his expression goes positive naughty. "Oh I'll have you."

xxxxxx

Sherlock sits up and pushes himself to standing without any real thought as he holds out his hand and waits for John to take it. He will, he must, because Sherlock is learning quite rapidly that he doesn’t want to lead anywhere that John Watson does not follow.

John takes it with a visible swallow and allows Sherlock to help him to his feet.  "You sure?" 

"Absolutely," he murmurs and he walks backwards, pulling him towards Elliot's small sailboat docked at their side. It creaks as they board, their weight making it rock and strain against the cleats.

“Elliot might kill us for shagging on here,” John murmurs as Sherlock leads him below deck without reply, clearly not caring in the slightest. 

It’s tiny and cramped but quiet. Intimate. It smells like wood polish, salt water, and tobacco from Elliot's not so secret cigar habit. It's comforting, but not nearly as comforting as what Sherlock inhales when he nuzzles John's neck. 

"Consider it a public service. Part of his job, right?" he eventually murmurs, as he places a hand on John's chest and gently pushes him back on the mattress.  

John laughs but it dies off as Sherlock slowly climbs on top of him and settles on his hips, one leg on each side. He feels John's throat muscles working through a swallow as he cups his jaw and looks at him reverently. "Like this." 

"Okay," John whispers, running his hands up Sherlock's thighs as Sherlock leans down and finally gives him a proper kiss, tongue gently running over John's lower lip and drawing a moan from the man. 

“This is a lot smaller than the last bed we did this on,” Sherlock mutters and John snorts, reaching up to cup the top of Sherlock’s head so he doesn’t bang it on the ceiling.

“We just can’t be too… vigorous.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow as he starts to unbutton his shirt. “Shame.”

Undressing is an amusing, unmitigated disaster in the limited space, which ends with both of them falling on the bed while trying to get out of their trousers as gracefully as possible. 

Sherlock shoves John back again to bounce against the mattress before leaning down on his hands which bracket John's hips and brushing his nose across John's clothed, aching cock.

“Oh God, Sherlock,” John breathes, struggling to keep from thrusting into the warm heart of his mouth. 

"Shall I take these off?" he asks, fingering the elastic waistband of his pants. 

"You bloody well better." 

He smiles and nips at John's belly before pulling the cotton down and letting John's cock slap against his stomach. 

"Beautiful," Sherlock breathes, tossing the pants, and moving up to press a chaste kiss to John's scar while the man beneath him works the last layer down Sherlock's thighs. He stands and lets them drop to the floor, briefly listening to the water lap against the hull.

"C'mere," John urges, scooting back against the headboard, getting a hold of Sherlock's bicep, and pulling him back on top of him. Sherlock goes willingly and then freezes, coming to a rather depressing realization. 

"We don't have lube. Or condoms." 

But John merely smiles softly and rubs his thumb across Sherlock's hipbone before leaning in and pressing his lips against his pulse point. "We can do something else." 

And for the first time while being intimate with another person, Sherlock feels safe. Taken care of. Like  _he's_ the priority. "You're okay with that?" he asks, because he must, and he gets his answer when John pulls back and looks at him incredulously. 

"Of course I'm okay with that. I have a gorgeous naked man in my lap. Who I'm not going to hurt simply because we're lacking supplies. I'm pretty confident we can each achieve a spectacular orgasm without penetration." 

Sherlock stares at him silently for a moment before kissing him so hard they nearly topple off the bed. 

"Whoa, Sher - " John manages but it turns into a moan as Sherlock gets his tongue in John's mouth and then all bets are off. 

John pulls them flush together, letting Sherlock rut against his stomach as John's cock slips perfectly between his cheeks. He grounds down slowly, drawing a growl from John that Sherlock needs to hear over and over again. 

"How could I forget this?" John breathes, expression looking almost pained at the pleasure he feels as Sherlock reaches between them and gets a hand around them both. 

"We need something – " he trails off and spots a bottle of suntan lotion on the table. He grabs it and pours a bit in his hand. 

"We're going to smell like coconut all day," John laughs, holding his hand out for some. 

"Could be worse."

"Sherlock," John moans, nearly a whine, forehead pressed against Sherlock's as he gets a hand around them both. 

"Yes," Sherlock groans, moving his hips in time with his strokes. John's joins him and Sherlock pants into his mouth. 

"Christ." John closes his eyes and attempts to connect their lips, hitting Sherlock's chin instead. "This isn't going to last." 

"Just need you," Sherlock breathes, speeding up. "Doesn't matter for how long."  

John's free hand slides around to Sherlock's back and traces the top of his crack. 

"Do it," Sherlock moans and John smiles against his lips, tracing patterns on his skin.

"You are so gorgeous." 

Sherlock feels John's cock thicken against his and his fingers dig into John's uninjured shoulder, riding him harder. "Please." 

John's hand drifts down and he presses one finger against Sherlock's hole and that's it – that's all it takes. Sherlock's head snaps back and his hips snap forward, cock pulsing out semen thick and warm between them. 

"Oh Jesus, Sherlock," John moans staring at the mess before tensing and coming with a strangled grunt, pulling Sherlock flush against him as they ride out the aftershocks. 

The only sounds in the small cabin are the panting of their breaths and the squelch of their skin sticking together and peeling apart. 

"Oh my God," John whispers eventually, smearing his lips in a messy kiss across Sherlock's mouth. "That was..." 

"Quite," Sherlock nods, getting a hand around John's neck and pulling him for a proper snog, sucking on his lip with what little energy he has left. 

"I can't move," John murmurs. 

"I'm okay with that," Sherlock replies, leaning backwards and pulling John with him until he's lying upside down on the bed with John cradled on his chest. 

He traces circles on the back of John's neck and stares at the ceiling, listening to the waves once more. 

Mycroft once told him that caring was not an advantage. It's why he got into this business in the first place, but now, as John's heart beats in tandem with his own, he's petrified by how much he feels for this man. 

Retirement, shockingly, might not be a bad idea.

John lifts his head and rests his chin on Sherlock's sternum, breath ghosting across his peaked nipple. “Hey. When we go back – ”

“Don’t,” Sherlock whispers, pressing his finger to John’s lips and swallowing hard. “Please. Not yet.” Because he’s honestly not sure what John will say and either option is too much for this quiet, sacred moment.

Should John wish to keep seeing him, Sherlock needs to know it’s not just the post-coitus glow talking. And should John’s reply be of the disappointing variety, then Sherlock doesn’t want to hear it now. Perhaps not ever.

"Okay," John quietly replies, hurt flashing briefly before silent understanding shines in his eyes. 

Sherlock lifts his head up so he can place a kiss at John's hairline, but the moment is broken when a booming voice calls from outside: 

“Ahoy there!” 

“Jesus!" John jumps up, hitting his head on the ceiling as Elliot laughs loudly.

"Best get a move on, boys. Ferry leaves in 30. Scrub the deck when you're done, eh?" 

"Elliot!" John cries, looking mortified, while Sherlock merely chuckles in the bed.

“Aye, aye, captain!” he calls eventually and Elliot bangs on the deck.

“Good man,” he replies before wandering away once more. 

They wait until he’s a good distance away before they burst out laughing, John’s forehead colliding with Sherlock’s chin as they wrap their arms around each other. Sherlock tries not to shiver as John’s fingers trace down his spine.

“We should probably shower." 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, glancing around at their mess. "And if we wanted privacy, we probably should not have left our shoes on the dock." 

"Probably," John chuckles, heaving himself into a sitting position and pressing a kiss to Sherlock's bare shoulder.

They straighten up as much as they can. Luckily most of their mess was stuck on their bodies, which makes for an uncomfortable walk of shame, but an easier clean up. Their dignity is saved by a relatively quiet lobby and hall as they hustle back to the room. 

Sherlock tells himself that he jumps in on John's shower in the interest of time, but really, he just wants to be near the man. And if John's visible arousal is anything to go by, he doesn't seem to mind either. Sherlock doesn’t even have time to be impressed with John’s refractory period before he’s pouncing on him and licking every piece of evidence from their previous shag off his body.

Fifteen minutes and two blowjobs later, they're stumbling into the lobby in their rehearsal dinner suits, with John straightening Sherlock's tie, while Sherlock fixes John's hair. 

"Where are we going again?" he asks and John pats down the strip of silk against his chest. 

"A yacht club just across the river. Quick ferry ride." 

Sherlock hums and watches from the corner of his eye as Harry trails Clara into the lobby and freezes at the sight of them. Sherlock smiles at her and slides an arm around John's waist as if to say  _We're good._

Her smile is relieved as she presses a kiss to a harried-Clara's temple as she tries to corral Alec into cooperating via mobile.  

"I swear to God, if you aren't here in three minutes, we are leaving without you," Clara barks and abruptly hangs up, just as Mary wanders into the lobby, eyebrows raised.

John stiffens next to him and, despite everything, something twists in Sherlock's gut. 

_John was naked in **your** arms. John was whispering **your** name. _

"Everything going well then?" she asks teasingly, but Clara only disappears down the hall muttering to herself as Mary shoots a questioning glance to Harry. 

"Don't ask," Harry replies somewhat dismissively, and Sherlock takes great comfort at knowing at least John's sister is on his side. 

Because even he can admit that Mary looks good in a deep red cocktail dress that seems to hug every curve perfectly. He holds John a bit tighter as Mary turns that penetrating gaze on them. 

"Have a good afternoon?" she asks sweetly, and it's innocent enough, but it makes Sherlock truly wonder if she knows exactly what they got up to.

"Wonderful, actually, thanks for asking," John answers coolly, letting out a deep breath when Clara emerges wrangling the rest of her wayward family, plus Aunt Adelaide. 

Sherlock has never been so happy to leave a five-star hotel before in his life. 

The drive to the boat on the rented trolley is quick and Sherlock immediately abandons John when they arrive to read about its history. It's the nation's oldest privately owned ferry and the captain is only too happy to show him around the small vessel after they cast off. John watches with amusement and then trepidation as Sherlock is allowed to take over the wheel.

"Don't kill us, please!" Harry calls and Sherlock even finds himself smiling cheesily as John snaps a photo on his phone. 

It's only when Mary joins John and starts chatting that he loses his desire to remain at the helm, handing control back over to the captain long before they have to dock. As he approaches, Mary gives him a warm smile, but backs away to chat with one of the cousins as he gets to John. 

"Okay?" he asks and hopes he doesn't sound as insecure as he feels. 

"Good," John replies, but he doesn't elaborate. Sherlock isn't sure why that makes him feel worse. 

"Anyone up for a round of poker when we arrive?" Elliot asks. "Dinner isn't until 7:30pm and I believe the club has a few games set up for us." 

Right now, Sherlock is up for any distraction and even if someone offered to play Cluedo, he's pretty sure he'd pounce on the opportunity. The ferry's engine groans as they dock and they're shuffled off for the short walk to the yacht club where they're greeted with trays of red and white wine as well as a full bar. It’s dangerous on many levels.

He takes John's hand and places a kiss on his knuckles. "Gin and tonic?" 

John smiles. "You know me so well." 

And Sherlock can't help smiling back because he does. After only a matter of days, he knows John better than he's known any other client. Even the word itself settles heavy in his gut, because 'client' doesn't scratch the surface of who John is to him. 

By the time he returns from the bar and heads outside where the tables are set up in the early evening light, Adelaide is kicking Elliot's arse at chess in the corner and John has found a place at a table where Mary is dealing out cards. Unfortunately. 

He places the drink on the table with a small flourish and straddles the bench, sitting sideways and sliding a hand on John’s thigh, making him jump.

"Behave," John murmurs as everyone studies their cards and Sherlock pouts, sticking his lower lip out far enough for John to want to bite it.

"Boring," he huffs as he returns his gaze to the table, but his hand remains exactly where it is, teasing the inseam of John's mid-thigh. 

A half hour passes in easy camaraderie, which isn't even the most surprising element of the evening. John actually isn’t a bad player, he’s impressed to learn, but he can’t read a person like Sherlock can, and so he lets his hand trail just a bit higher on the man's inner thigh, causing John to gasp and then fake cough when all eyes land on him. 

He makes a vague gesture towards his G&T, despite the fact that he hasn't taken a sip in at least three minutes. Sherlock smirks and leans in closer. 

"Harry has a full house, queens high," he whispers, lips ghosting across John's ear as Alec throws more money into the middle. "And he's bluffing." 

The man shivers as he leans into Sherlock's chest. "How do you know?" he asks, breath catching as Sherlock traces the zipper of his trousers with his forefinger. 

"His left eye twitches when he's lying." 

John swallows, but keeps his focus on the game, murmuring "Son of a bitch" during the next round when Alec does it again, revealing the tell. He turns to Sherlock with wonder (and lust) in his eyes. "You are something else." 

Sherlock grins evilly. "I know." 

The bell for dinner rings and the game rapidly wraps up. John doesn't win, but Mary loses and that's good enough for Sherlock. 

Sure, he's playing dirty, but the stakes are high and, frankly, he can't be arsed to care. 

xxxxxx

Harry is halfway through the story of how John inadvertently and unknowingly interrupted her and Clara's first time and John is laughing so hard, it's devolved into a rather embarrassing giggle fit, but Sherlock is looking at him like he's the greatest thing since Jaffa cakes so any self-consciousness John might have felt flies completely out the window. 

"Oh my god, I need the loo," he mutters as he stands and runs his thumbs across the back of Sherlock's neck.

"But I'm just getting to the best part!" Harry cries as Clara hides her mortification in her napkin. 

"Your first time with your soon-to-be wife is not a moment I really need to relive, love," John replies. "You're just lucky  _I_ didn't bring home a date or it really would have been a West End farce." 

Sherlock pinches his bum and John barely suppresses a yelp. Adelaide shoots him a knowing look anyway.

"John, love, be a dear and find Alec?" Olivia asks from across the table. "He went to get a refill twenty minutes ago and I fear he’s been distracted by a rather charming blonde waitress. Grab him by the ear and remind him that his sister is getting married tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am," John laughs with another squeeze to Sherlock's neck as he heads inside. The air conditioning is nice against his wine-flushed face and he's still chuckling by the time he finds Alec snogging said waitress in the corner. 

"Oi," he calls as Alec and the blonde jump apart. "Get back out there before your mother sends Clara in after you." 

Alec blanches as his irate sister could strike fear in the hearts of even the most hardened of men, and quickly gets the waitress’ number before beating a hasty retreat back outside.

Shaking his head, John heads for the loo and takes care of his business, thinking of all the fun ways he and Sherlock can spend the evening with access to proper lube and condoms. It’s enough to make urinating suddenly a bit difficult, and he takes a moment to get himself under control before washing his hands and heading out the door.

Straight into Mary.

“Uh, hi,” he says, taking a cursory glance around and seeing no one in the vicinity. “All right?”

She looks upset, teeth worrying her perfectly lipsticked lower lip as she twists her fingers. “I just… wanted a minute.”

“You okay?” He places a hand on her arm because, though they may no longer be together, he does still care about her. Possibly even wanted a second chance, in fact, up until a few days ago.

“I don’t think so,” she replies, tears filling her eyes.

“Whoa, hey. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Whatever it is.” He glances around again, looking for perhaps a more appropriate shoulder for her to cry on – Clara or, hell, even Adelaide – but he’s just not that lucky.

“I think I made a mistake,” she warbles, swiping a finger under her eye yet managing not to muss her mascara.

He narrows his eyes. “With what?”

“Ending us.”

“Oh Christ, Mary.” He takes a step back, putting some space between them. “Now? You’re doing this now?”

She ignores him and ploughs on. “And it’s fine, if you – if you’ve moved on. I can accept that.”

He scoffs, anger flaring. “Can you?”

“Please give me, give _us_ another shot.”

And before he can answer, she’s stepping forward, grabbing his lapels, and pressing those red lips to his. It feels achingly familiar – like opening a well-loved book to any random page – and yet horribly _wrong._ His hands land on her hips out of habit, but then his brain reboots and he disengages, holding her at arm’s length.

“Mary, no! I’m with Sherlock now.”

She groans in frustration, hurt giving way to something far uglier. "Why him?" 

John's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?" 

"It's embarrassing." 

"Embarrassing?" John's voice is dangerously low, pulse thumping in his temple. “For whom?" He takes a step forward and she takes one back. "You knew I was bi when we started dating, Mary. Explain to me what part of this relationship that has absolutely nothing to do with you, is embarrassing.”

“John, it’s not – ”

"Is it more or less embarrassing than calling off the wedding two days after the invitations have gone out? Because let me tell you, those were some pretty awkward questions to answer." 

“John, please," she hiccups. "Give me another chance.” She leans in again, reaching for him, and he grabs her wrists none-too-gently.

“Do not,” he growls, pushing her away. "You had your chance and you blew it!" 

"But, John – "

"I'm in love with Sherlock!" he shouts and the words themselves don't surprise him as much as the truth behind them does. He's in love with him. Horribly, stupidly in love. The dam breaks and the air rushes in, expanding his lungs and filling him with a lightness he was too blind to see and too dense to take hold of. He smiles and nearly giggles again, before leveling a glance at the woman, the stranger, before him. “Now leave me the hell alone,” he growls before turning on his heel and stalking back through the banquet hall towards the tent on the lawn.

The elation of his realization is being beaten back by the anger coursing through every vein in his body, as his left hand clenches at his side. He’s halfway towards the table when he sees Harry marching towards him looking just as thunderous and he slows, wondering what on earth she has to be mad at _him_ for.

"What the hell did you do?" she demands as she jabs him in the chest and he's at a loss. Surely she couldn't have seen the Mary fiasco. It lasted all of a moment. At the other end of the club.

"What do you mean?" 

Harry gestures towards the driveway and the gate beyond. "Sherlock just took off looking very upset, so I'll ask again: what. did. you. do?" 

"I didn't – " but he trails off because, sure, Harry didn't see, but that doesn't mean that Sherlock, with all of his impeccable timing, didn't. "Oh God." 

He takes off at a full sprint before Harry can even ask him where he’s going.

xxxxxx

_Caring is not an advantage._

The words mock him in Mycroft’s snooty tone and he growls, frightening a passing woman, in an effort to drown them out as his feet smack against the brick sidewalk. 

_Her red lips on his. His hands on her waist. Her palm on his cheek._

**_Don't._ **

"Sherlock, wait!" 

 _Please no._ He can’t do this. He can’t face John now. He’s too vulnerable to even attempt to erect his emotional armor, and even if he were operating at full strength, John would strip it from him anyway. Sherlock has let him in and John has made himself at home in the dark, dusty corner of Sherlock's heart. 

“Sherlock, please. You have to let me explain,” John says, nearer now. His jogging footsteps echo down the empty lane and Sherlock curses small town America for not having a tube station to duck into and get lost in the crowd. “Sherlock – ” John gets a hand on his arm, but Sherlock reels from it like a brand, finally spinning and facing the source of all his undoing. 

"John... ” _You can do this. You can be the escort - the **machine** \- everyone already thinks you to be. _

“You have to let me explain,” John pants, sweating in the evening sun.

“No explanation necessary,” he clips, clasping his hands behind his back if only to keep them from reaching out. “I see congratulations are in order.”

John frowns, shaking his head. “What? No, I – ”

"You've achieved your objective and so I believe this is the dissolution of our agreement.”

_God, why does it hurt so much? It wasn’t meant to hurt this much._

John gapes. “Wait, what? How can you say that? After this afternoon? How can you possibly think – ”

_Caring is not an advantage._

“You were just a job,” he finally snaps. “One I got handsomely paid for. I played my part and you got what you came for. Happy endings all around."

John steps back as if physically slapped, mouth popping open in disbelief. Sherlock ignores the debilitating ache in his chest and forces himself to meet John’s betrayed gaze.

“I wish you all the best in your future endeavors. I will reschedule my flight and eat the change fee. I believe that's us sorted.” He tears his eyes away, staring at his shoes, because he’s just not that strong. “Oh and you’ve got a bit of lipstick just there.” He points a shaking hand to the corner of John’s mouth, both loving and loathing every fleck of hurt that appears in John’s eyes.

With a curt nod and a shattered heart, he turns and strides in the opposite direction towards the ferry, hating the fact that some part of him hopes to hear footsteps running to catch up, but they don't come. And why would they? Sherlock made it quite clear to John that he was not wanted. 

He pulls his phone out and fires off a text to Mycroft, ignoring the fact that his fingers still shake. 

 **What’s the first flight out**  
**of IAD to LHR?**  
**-SH**

 **Leaving so soon?**  
**-MH**

 **Piss off.**  
**-SH**

He makes it halfway across the river before the first, and only, tear falls. It's a single thing, slowly tracking down the curve of his cheek before dropping off the cliff of his chin. 

Sherlock swipes at it angrily and hangs his head over the railing.

_Caring is not an advantage._

 xxxxxx

When John gets back to the room that night, to the king sized bed that will seem just a bit too big for him now, he finds an envelope waiting on the side table. The same envelope he slapped on a bar in the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse a lifetime ago when Sherlock was just a posh git and John was just a desperate man. 

The times really haven’t changed all that much and yet it feels as though earth's gravity has shifted. 

His name is written on the front in Sherlock's familiar scrawl, but that's it. No note. No explanation. He supposes they've said all they need to.  _And then some,_ he thinks bitterly.

He stares through the door at the shower where, not three hours ago, John was physically restraining himself from whispering those three words into Sherlock’s pale, wet skin.

His breath hitches and he bites back a sob as he picks up the envelope and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall with an unsatisfactory ‘thump,’ and he falls back against the wardrobe, slowly sliding to the floor.

He won’t bother counting the cash.

He trusts Sherlock. He knows it’s all there.

 

 

The yacht club: 

The ferry: 


	4. The Mending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a joy. Cheers. x

Sherlock blinks his eyes open and experiences an incandescent moment of ignorant bliss before the events of the previous evening come crashing back on his shoulders. He buries his face in the pillow and lets out an agonized noise of such frustration, anger, and hurt that he can only be glad no one is around to hear it.  

He stumbles from the bed in the small boat and glances at his phone, noting the incredibly early hour. A quick peek out the porthole tells him that the sun isn't yet up over the water and he wonders if he can sneak into the hotel for a cup of coffee before anyone catches him.

He makes the bed (because he likes Elliot and it’s the polite thing to do) as he vigorously ignores the memory of the previous afternoon’s activities that it witnessed. No time for that now. 

He pulls on a pair of trousers and a shirt and runs his fingers through his hair, pocketing his toothbrush so he can use it in the hotel’s toilet. He’ll shower in the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse if need be.

He climbs the small ladder to the deck, breathing in the morning dew. It’s early enough that the mist hangs low on the water, giving it an eerie, ethereal glow in the barely-dawn light. It’s only when he turns to step off the boat that he realizes he’s not alone.

“Oh,” Harry blurts from her perch in an Adirondack chair by the edge of the water. She’s wrapped in a blanket, still in her pajamas, fingers curled around a mug of tea or coffee. Sherlock can’t tell which from here. “I thought you'd gone,” she murmurs and he grunts a response, having no desire to engage in conversation, particularly with the sister of the man that just broke his heart. “You look like shit,” she adds and he throws her a withering look as he steps onto the dock.

“Cold feet?” he snaps, just to be petty, but she surprises him as she fixes him with a challenging smirk and a raised eyebrow.

“I should ask the same of you.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn't rise to the bait. He does, however, wrestle with whether he should be rude and simply walk into the hotel or sit down and engage in conversation. It's too much effort for the former and too early for the latter, so he's at a crossroads. She smiles as if she senses his dilemma and pats the arm of the chair next to her. 

"I'll share," she holds her mug out. "Or we could just wait until the porter comes back out to top up mine. He promised he would." 

"Hard to disappoint a bride on her wedding day," he replies and Harry nods, holding the mug out again. Sherlock sniffs. "You put too much milk in it." 

"Everyone's a critic," she mutters and takes a sip, burrowing further into the blanket in the slight chill. Sherlock remains quiet and she glances up again. "Are you going to just stand there or are you going to sit and talk to me?" 

He huffs, but sits, regretting that he didn't throw a suit jacket on over his shirt as his body betrays him to give a slight shiver. Harry tosses part of her blanket on him and he tries incredibly hard not to be touched by it. 

"Why are you still here?" she asks simply, without accusation or agenda. 

He leans back against the slanted wood and sighs. "Dulles only has one non-stop flight and I had already missed it last night. I’ll leave soon. No need to hang about."

Harry hums and then turns as a door opens behind them revealing a porter carrying a tray of coffee. "Told you." 

Sherlock is grateful that he seems to have brought an extra cup for him, and he gratefully accepts the proffered coffee, taking a greedy sip that burns his tongue. He feels it move down his esophagus, warming parts of his body that had long since gone numb, but he refuses to blame John for the emptiness he feels. He'd rather not give him the credit.  

Harry is smart enough to wait until the porter is well out of ear shot before saying, "You called my brother a job.” Again, it contains no malice, which is probably why it hurts more.

He inhales a rattling breath and tries to ignore the pain in his chest. “He was.”

“You fucker,” she breathes, letting out a soft noise of disbelief.

He wonders if she’ll take the blanket back, even as he agrees with her. “Quite.”

“I know what you saw and you need to hear him out." 

He shakes his head, both in response to her suggestion and in an effort to dismiss the raw hurt he feels. 

"You do," she stresses. "Sherlock, it's not what you think and, trust me, I made sure." He remains quiet and she sighs. "Look, it's not my place to say anything. It should come from John. Lord knows neither of you needs anything else to be lost in translation." 

"He's wanted Mary from the start. They should be together," he says even as Harry scoffs in disdain. "I'm not...  _good_  for him." 

"Oh, don't be a tosser." 

"Harriet," he snaps. "I'm not who you think I am." 

Her eyes shine in a way that's so  _John,_ he nearly gasps. “You’re exactly who I think you are," she replies. "You think that just because people pay you for your affections, my brother couldn't genuinely fall in love with you? You think you're not worthy of loving him in return?" 

Sherlock remains quiet and stares out over the water, the mug of hot coffee burning his hand.

“Because that’s a load of horseshit,” Harry concludes, driving the point home.

Sherlock closes his eyes, but all he can see are Mary’s lips on John’s, leaving a smear of red that mocks him and every ounce of feeling he allowed into his supposedly hollow heart. “Who knows what happened?”

“If you’re asking if John made a scene, he didn’t,” Harry retorts in defense of her brother. Sherlock kind of loves them both for that. “No one knows,” she says more quietly.

Sherlock nods and breathes easier because the thought of Elliot or Alec or Olivia, or even Adelaide, thinking ill of him makes his stomach queasy. It’s an entirely selfish thought, but it can’t be helped.

As if she’s able to read his mind, she says, “It was done for Clara’s sake, not yours. And if you’re dumb enough to go, then I’m not stopping you.”

And with that, she stands and leaves him to his thoughts, taking the warmth of the blanket with her.

xxxxxx

John watches the digital clock click over from 8:07 to 8:08 and sighs, banging his head back against the headboard and wondering how the hell this plan backfired so spectacularly. 

_Because you're an idiot, that's why._

He groans as he heaves himself to sitting, rubbing blearily at his sleep-deprived eyes. He could call for coffee, but the phone is on the other side of the bed whose pillow still smells like Sherlock and -- he really needs to get a grip on himself. 

A shower. He'll start with a shower. If he approaches this day one thing at a time, he may just make it through. 

He turns the knobs and waits until the water warms, squeezing his eyes tight and trying not to think about the last shower he took. 

_Sherlock on his knees, rubbing patterns on John's hip with his thumb as John tips his head back and moans toward the ceiling..._

He clears his throat and pinches his thigh, hard, quelling the desire that had flared. Even the shower before that, when Sherlock had confronted him with the envelope of cash John had stupidly and drunkenly withdrawn ( _was that really just 24 hours ago?_ ), was preferable to this. Sure, Sherlock had been angry with him, but at least he'd been  _here._

John would give anything for an angry Sherlock rather than an absent one, even as the words he hurled in his face continue battering at the walls of John's heart.

_"You were just a job."_

He clears his throat as he steps under the spray, turning his face into the water. 

_"Just a job."_

He growls in frustration and punches the tile, promptly groaning as he cradles his rapidly swelling hand. _Nice, Watson. That accomplished something._

He gingerly washes his hair and body, thoroughly regretting the flash of anger with every throb of pain up his wrist. He ignores the marks on his chest from Sherlock's lips and teeth, scrubbing a bit more harshly than strictly necessary; washing over them with a flannel as if mere soap could make them disappear. 

He fervently wishes they both would and wouldn't.

He steps out and towels off, popping a couple paracetamol as he flexes his fingers, before a knock sounds at the door. 

"Just a second!" he calls, pulling on pants and wrapping the hotel's terrycloth dressing gown around himself. He hates the part of him that hopes Sherlock is on the other side. 

The door swings back, though, revealing not the man he lov -  

 _No, don't. Don't poke the bruise._  

"Aunt Adelaide," he blurts, unable to hide his disappointment. She merely arches a formidable eyebrow and presses a garment bag into his chest. 

"Top of the morning to you, too." 

His lips twitch in a smile and he steps back, turning to hang his morning suit on the back of the wardrobe door.

Adelaide takes a swift glance around, no doubt clocking that only one side of the bed has been slept in. For all of her dottiness, she's incredibly observant, and not for the first time, John wonders if it's all just an act.

“Where’s your young man?” she asks innocently enough, but it's too calculated. 

John clears his throat and stuff his hands in his pockets, hiding his still swollen knuckles. “He – uh – he had to catch a flight to London. Last minute business, you know how it is.”

Adelaide's eyes narrow and John realizes she knows  _exactly_ how it is. After all, she saw him last night as he returned to the dinner table looking like a man who just let everything he ever cared about slip through his fingers. He went through the motions, pulling his napkin into his lap and passing the bread when asked, but he wasn't there. He wasn't present. And a single word didn't pass his lips for the remainder of the meal. 

She moves to the bed and perches on the edge, patting the space next to her. 

"Aunt Adelaide..." John begins, but the look on her face is enough to silence his complaint. He goes without another word and sits next to her, clasping his hands together and letting his chin drop to his chest, like a child awaiting a scolding. 

"I will talk and you will listen, young man. Now," she shifts and pulls her silk shawl tighter around her shoulders, "I've seen you at your very lowest - "

He scoffs, but she points a finger in his face. 

"Don't give me that, John Hamish Watson. You forget: I've changed your nappies, cleaned your scrapes, and visited you in hospital when they were still digging metal out of your body. I've seen you at your very worst  _and_ at your very best." She takes his chin in her withered fingers and holds it in a surprisingly firm grip, before softening her voice. "And I've never seen you happier than you have been these last few days." 

He swallows hard and inhales shakily, but she doesn't let him avert his gaze. No, she holds his stare until his eyes swim and his lower lip trembles in her loving hand. 

"Oh, my boy," she murmurs, sliding her hand around the back of his neck to pull him into her shoulder. 

And he goes willingly, because it's true. He had been living a half-life, each day depleting him more and more until he was honestly not sure what he'd be left with. And then Sherlock came along, bringing with him the simplicity of something to look forward to. A goal. A giggle. A joy. A  _purpose_. 

Her hand is solid on the back of his neck, carding slightly through the hair at his nape, and instantly, he's eight-years-old again, hiding in his room after spending two hours at his mother's funeral being strong for Harry. Adelaide had sat down on the bed, much like she's doing now, and rested her hand on his back without a word. He toppled sideways into her lap, sobs finally clawing their way out of his throat as she hummed a tune and ran her fingers through his sun-bleached hair. 

"Now, enough of the waterworks. Come on," she orders with steel under her sympathy. "Hold your head up, shave your face, and put your trousers on." 

He clears his throat and wipes his eyes, laughing slightly at how ridiculous he feels. Then again, everyone needs a good telling off every once in a while.

"Yes, Aunt Adelaide," he murmurs, staring at the woman who shared his mother's eyes, before taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. 

"Good boy," she clips, clearing her throat and giving him a less-than-gentle pat on the cheek. It's more of a wakeup than the cup of coffee he's still craving. "I'll be in Harry's room when you're done. Join us like the decent Best Man you are." 

He rolls his eyes at the subtle dig and dutifully replies, "I will." 

She stands with another pointed look to Sherlock's un-slept-in side of the bed. "Don't throw away the good ones, dear." 

"I'm not the one doing the throwing," he mutters more bitterly than he means to and that fierce look that's sharper than a scalpel is back on his aunt's face. 

"And when has that stopped you from chasing what you want?" 

"I don't know what I want." 

Those knowing eyes narrow. "Yes you do. Now," she sweeps regally across the room, "Harry's suite in ten minutes, young man." 

He nods, but remains silent, staring at the floor long after the door closes behind her. She's right. She's always right. John has been happier in the last few days than in the whole of his time with Mary. But his aunt didn't hear Sherlock's words or see the look on his face last night. His expression wasn't even filled with anger or contempt. It was worse. It was indifference. There was no venom in what he said, nor was he making accusations. He was merely stating facts, and each hard truth bore a hole in John's already fragile trust. 

He dresses slowly. Methodically. Wrapping each added layer around him as if it will keep out the chill that Sherlock's absence has caused. Tossing the jacket over his arm, he stuffs the hotel key in his pocket and makes his way up to the next floor where Harry's suite is located. She and Clara had shared a room up until last night when Clara stayed across the river with her parents at their home. 

He takes a deep breath and knocks, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt as the claustrophobia settles in. It swings back a moment later and Adelaide stands there, glass of champagne firmly in hand, before stepping back and ushering him into the room gaily as if she hadn't been politely ignoring his tears ten minutes previously. 

"Baby brother," Harry smiles from the chair in front of the mirror where a woman twists her hair into an impressive array of complicated knots. "This is Allison. She's going to make me look semi-decent today." 

The woman gives John a warm smile around a mouthful of bobby pins. 

"Quite the task," John replies, making sure he's well out of arm's reach as Harry swats at him while Allison glares and mumbles something that might be, "Don't move." 

Harry huffs and glances down at her perfectly-manicured nails, peeking out of the sleeves of her dressing gown. She's sans makeup for the moment and John takes a moment to observe the dark circles under her eyes. 

"Sleep well?" he asks and she shrugs, mindful of keeping her head still. 

"Well enough." 

Adelaide hands Harry a flute of sparkling cider and holds one containing the real thing out for John. He shakes his head and Harry frowns in the mirror as he sits on the edge of the bed. 

"You feeling all right?" 

"Why wouldn't I be?" he asks and both she and Adelaide give him identically arched eyebrows. 

"You look just as bad as he did this morning," she murmurs, taking a sip, but John's higher brain functions seem to have stuttered to a stop. There's no question who 'he' is.

“What, you saw him? He’s still here?”

“Well, I don't know if he is  _now,"_ she says somewhat guiltily. "I saw him hours ago.He was staying on Elliot’s boat.”

_Oh Sherlock._

John stands and makes a move to the door, but then stops, heart hammering against his sternum.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, eyes flicking from his outstretched hand to the knob it’s almost touching.

His arm falls back to his side and he sits back down on the bed, shoulders slumping. After all, what could he possibly say to Sherlock that the man would want to hear? Nothing. Clearly. 

“You’re not fighting for him,” Harry murmurs, looking at him like she’s never seen him before. 

John swallows and flexes his hand. “I don’t think he wants me to.”

"Of course he does," Harry insists, gently taking hold of Allison's wrist so she can turn in the chair and look John in the eye. “Johnny – ” She tilts her hand in a sympathetic way that he just can't handle. 

“I’m fine. Today is your day.” He even manages a decent smile, which would be so much more convincing if his sodding twin didn't know him as well as she does. 

"Yes, it is  _my_  day, so why am  _I_ playing relationship therapist for every moron on the Eastern Shore?" she asks no one in particular, before leaning forward, grabbing hold of John's tie, and yanking him closer. Adelaide makes a noise of reproach, but Harry pays her no mind. "He thinks that you want to be with Mary. You think that he sees you as just a job. You're both idiots who could fix this whole goddamn situation if you just actually heard the other out. Now. Get out of my sight until you stop being such a wanker. I don't care if you're the Best Man."  

She lets go, but John doesn't move. He just stares at her with eyes that are starting to hurt given how wide they are and a slack jaw that will start catching flies soon. 

Allison looks entirely unfazed by the whole spectacle. As a wedding makeup artist, this is probably the least of the crazy things she's seen. His gaze finds Aunt Adelaide, pleading for an ally, but she merely shrugs and takes another sip of her champagne. 

"Don't look at me. I'm with her." She gestures to Harry who's still staring at him with fire in her eyes. 

"Well?" she asks, pulling out her phone and fiddling with the buttons. "What are you still doing here?"

"I..." but he doesn't get much beyond that, his words deserting him as he feels totally wrong-footed. Could Sherlock truly think he'd want to be with Mary? After everything they've experienced over the last few days? 

"What are you doing?" he asks dumbly instead, but she doesn't look up from her phone. 

"Texting." 

"Texting who?" 

"Whom.”

“Harry.”

“None of your business, busybody! Now get out and mope elsewhere. Come back to me when you have a plan to win him back."

"And how do you suppose I go about doing that?" he snaps, rubbing his forehead while he tries to produce a coherent line of thought.

"Well, seeing if he's still here might be a good start, dear," Aunt Adelaide offers and even Allison nods along. 

"I have a feeling groveling will be involved," Harry replies, text shooting off with a  _whoosh_ sound, before placing her phone on the vanity with a flourish. "Now, off you pop." 

John flees before Harry comes up with any more 'helpful' suggestions, but by the time he gets to Elliot's boat, Sherlock is long gone. 

xxxxxx

The Chesapeake Bay Bridge has lost a significant amount of its luster the second time Sherlock crosses it. Then again, he's not appreciating much about his journey back to Dulles.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he ignores it, having no desire to deal with Mycroft or his insufferable smugness. To say his brother disapproves of his chosen profession is an understatement of the highest sort, which is probably why Sherlock takes great delight in keeping him abreast of his clients. Of course, when Sherlock gathers intel which ends up greatly aiding Mycroft's forays into international intrigue, he's only all too eager to hear the gory details. Hypocrite. 

He closes his eyes against the harsh glare of the midday sun bouncing off the water, but only sees Mary’s red lips, her small hands, her knowing smirk as she glances in Sherlock’s direction before pressing herself head to toe against John's chest. How she must have gloated when she returned to the dinner table. Sherlock is not one for jealousy, but it burns through his organs like acid.

The phone buzzes again two minutes later with a reminder of the unread text and he sighs, pulling it from his breast pocket and frowning at the unknown number. Not Mycroft, then.

He opens the message and is informed the attached photo is loading. And when it does, he inhales sharply.

His own sleeping face is presented to him, lying on a bed in the captain’s quarters, contented expression partially hidden where his head rests against John’s chest. His arm is draped across John’s stomach and John holds fast to his elbow with his left hand while his right is buried in Sherlock’s curls. Their legs are tangled together and a soft smile graces John’s sleeping face. It’s such a contrast to the last expression he saw there: brows pinched in pain, eyes haunted by betrayal, lips working around words that will not form. 

What a number he did on him.

And why? He was confident enough about his standing in John’s life prior to the dinner fiasco. Even halfway through the meal, John’s hand was steady on the back of Sherlock’s neck, his smiles genuine and his eyes sparkling every time he glanced in his direction.

Then Mary followed John to the toilet and Sherlock's curiosity got the better of him. His emotions apparently did, too. 

Yes, he’s hurt, but more so, he’s frightened. He’d made himself vulnerable and he was stung for it. But something else dominates all of that - a feeling more deep and vicious than any emotional wound: longing. 

It’s barely been 14 hours and he misses John desperately.  

_Oh God._

Sherlock punches his thigh and presses the mobile to his forehead, breathing harshly around the sudden panic holding his lungs in a vise.

_Well played, Harriet Watson. Well played, indeed._

“Everything all right, sir?” his driver asks and Sherlock swallows hard, if only to find his voice.

"Sorry," he begins, and the fact that he's apologizing is reason enough for Mycroft to call out an honor guard. 

"Sir?" the driver asks, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.  

"I need you to turn the car around." 

xxxxxx

“Oh Harry,” John breathes as she steps out from behind the changing screen in the cream-colored sleeveless dress that fits her like a glove. “You look…” he trails off and tries to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“Yeah?” she asks, eyes already watering.

“Yeah,” he whispers, stepping forward to place a kiss on her cheek. “If only Mum could see you,” he murmurs in her ear and she sniffles as she clutches his forearms.

“You’re going to make me wreck my makeup.”

“Can’t have that,” he teases. “Not after Allison has gone through such a monumental effort.”

Harry swats at him and he winks at the makeup artist who laughs and shakes her head, putting her tools away. “I’ll leave you some hairspray,” she offers, but John doesn’t think that a gale force wind would move the twist on the back of Harry’s head.

“Car’s downstairs. Adelaide’s already into her third glass of champagne.”

“Christ,” Harry groans. “Good thing she’s not walking me down the aisle. She'd be zigzagging the whole way.”

John frowns. “She’s not?” They didn’t practice coming down the aisle last night. Just the vows. And the drinking.

“Of course not, idiot,” Harry says, looking at him fondly. “You are.”

“But…” he flounders for a bit, because she’s never brought this up with him before. Their father is long gone and even if he hadn’t been, John doubts he would have even been invited, let alone be walking the bride down the aisle. “I’m Best Man.”

“Pretty sure you can manage both. Army doctor, right?” She punches his shoulder, before straightening his pocket square. “You can shoot the bullet  _and_ save the life.”

“Did you just equate your wedding to a war?” he laughs as he wraps his arms around her again.

“Possibly. Don’t tell Clara.”

“Our secret.”

She pulls away and clears her throat, glancing around the room for her bouquet. It’s right there on the sideboard, but she carefully overlooks it twice with an air of nonchalance that doesn’t fool John one bit.

“Harry - ”

“You’ll be all right with her there?” she interrupts, and John shrugs.

“Kind of have to be,” he murmurs before he realizes how pitying that sounds. "Sorry, of course I will. One dance for appearances' sake and then Aunt Adelaide is my main squeeze for the rest of the evening." 

Harry snorts. "She'll have to fight Olivia for you." 

John laughs, but it fades quickly, and he clears his throat, grabbing his morning suit jacket from the back of the chair. "What?" he asks, catching sight of Harry's tilted head and soft expression.

"I wish he was here, too. I really thought he'd stay." 

 _Oh_. John clears his throat. “Well, you like to think the best of people.”

“Oh we both know that’s not bloody true,” she laughs before clapping her hands together. "Now come on, let's go before we reach our soppy quotient for the average British person. We haven't even gotten to the damn ceremony yet."

xxxxxx

John tries not to gape at the old cream-colored Rolls Royce waiting for them downstairs, he really does – and fails spectacularly. Letting out a low whistle, he circles it once (thoroughly ignoring the driver chuckling at him) before sliding in next to Harry on the plush leather. 

Adelaide is only too happy to sit in the front, side-eying their (admittedly) handsome driver as he makes his way to the church.

"You know, I got a bit handsy in one of these with a fellow back in '55,” she murmurs as John and Harry yell, “Aunt Adelaide,” both looking scandalized.

John shakes his head and stares at the window while Harry tries to keep their aunt from molesting the chauffeur. It’s a short drive, but just long enough for John to work himself up into a right state. He’s angry at Sherlock for leaving, he’s angry at Mary for putting him in this position, but most of all, he’s angry at himself for being such a goddamn coward.

He should have fought harder. He knows Sherlock, despite what the man thinks. He knows those words were a kneejerk response to the utter hurt he must have felt at seeing John with Mary. John imagines for a sickening moment how he would react to seeing Sherlock with someone else and thankfully the car pulls to a stop outside to the church fast enough for John to open the door and dry heave into the bushes.

“Jesus, John!” Harry blurts behind him, alarmed, while Aunt Adelaide says something vaguely sounding like, “Are you all right, dear?”

He nods and manages to quell his nausea. “Car sick,” he mutters, but everyone knows it’s bullshit. They were barely in the vehicle for five minutes.

He straightens up, hoping he can blame it on the heat, but Harry’s expression is just a bit too knowing. A bit too pitying.

“Please don’t,” he murmurs, and she offers him a small smile.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And because he doesn’t have  _enough_ witnesses to his humiliation, he turns to find Mary standing on the steps of the church, watching him keenly.

“Yes?” Harry asks, ice in her tone, and John’s lips quirk in a near-smile as Mary’s cool gaze falters.

“Oh, the vicar asked me to show you to your antechamber. Can’t have the brides seeing each other before the wedding.”

“Utter travesty,” Harry mutters in reply, but allows them to be led by Mary with a hand at John’s back. Adelaide takes up the rear of their little procession, blowing a kiss to the driver for good measure.

The small church is thankfully cool inside, with its stone walls and natural light. It smells like the flowers Harry and Clara (Olivia, really) have painstakingly picked out combined with a touch of incense. It reminds John of Sunday school as a child and he tries not to shiver under the watchful eye of the Virgin Mary as they pass under her marble likeness.

The antechamber has clearly been prepped for a wedding, with a full-length mirror added that would normally have no place in a house of worship that frowns on vanity. A bottle of champagne cools in a bucket of ice and Aunt Adelaide is quick to make a beeline for it as Harry enters the room, but doesn’t stray far, letting John dictate how they will proceed.

“John, could we just – ” Mary starts, but he brushes by her as his left hand twitches.

“Not now, Mary.”

“When then? Are you just going to ignore me?”

“Yes, actually. I am,” he clips as he spins, presenting a united front as he stands next to Harry.

Mary’s gaze flicks between them – desperation for John and annoyance for his sister. Her eyes must eventually find Adelaide because she cowers for a moment under the woman’s formidable judgment.

“I just need a moment alone,” she says, pleads more like, but John stands firm.

“There is literally a woman in a white dress about to walk down an aisle here, Mary. It’s not the best time.”

By now, movement has stopped in the vestibule as all parties pretend like they’re not listening to the domestic unfolding in the antechamber just beyond. Through the doorway, John can see an usher outright staring just over Mary's shoulder. 

"Mary, please."  _Don't do this to Harry,_ he silently begs but Mary is a woman on a mission. 

“Don't throw us away, John. I'm sorry! I said I'm sorry!" 

"No you're not," he spits. "Did you know he was standing there? Did you see him and kiss me anyway?" 

He hears Adelaide gasp somewhere behind him and he can actually feel his pulse throbbing in his temple as Mary looks at him unrepentantly. 

"I was the best thing that ever happened to you - " she begins and something inside John snaps. 

“No, I  _lost_ the best thing that ever happened to me!" he roars. "And it's your goddamn fault!" 

"In a church," Harry reminds under her breath as Alec strides through the door.  

“What the hell is all the racket?” he asks and is thoroughly ignored as Mary shrugs off the hand he places on her shoulder. 

“Oh no one’s perfect!” she spits, eyes narrowing just as she delivers the final, brutal blow. “Even Harry cheated last year!”

No one moves. No one breathes.

“Oh that’s low, Mary,” John growls. “Even for you.”

"Mary," comes Clara’s voice from where she now stands in the doorway, resplendent in her white gown, “why – why would you say that?" She chuckles, but there’s an uneasiness in her tone.

“I don’t know, Harry,” Mary bites. “Why would I say that?”

All eyes land on John’s sister and one look at her devastated face is all the answer anyone needs.

“Harry?” Clara asks, hope warring with hurt. Hope that her bride will prove her wrong. Hurt in that she already knows the truth in the accusation. She turns without a word and sprints across the vestibule.

Harry lets out a sob and makes a move to chase after, but she must know it’s a lost cause because John’s arm quickly coming around her waist is the only thing that keeps her from crumpling to the floor. He guides her to a chair and keeps a hand on her shaking shoulder as he stares at Mary, whose look of quiet victory makes him physically ill.

“Get out, Mary,” Alec orders, his usually jovial features like ice. 

“What?"

“The Watsons have put up with you for Clara’s sake, but no more. Get. Out. I’ll be the fucking Maid of Honor if I have to.”

John moves to stand at Alec’s right shoulder, face positively thunderous, until he finally sees a crack in Mary's brittle exterior. 

"John - "

"Just go," Alec repeats. 

"Now," Adelaide orders, and John is thankful. With Harry's sobs still echoing around the antechamber, words are beyond him at the moment. 

Mary swallows and nods, but John is already striding back to Harry's side once more, refusing to watch her go. 

Alec nods in the direction Clara ran. “I’ll find mine. You stay with yours.”

“Right,” John murmurs.

Alec moves across and squeezes his shoulder, gently cuffing Harry on the chin, before turning and jogging out the vestibule doors and into the sunlight. Considering John's sister apparently cheated on his, Alec is taking it all remarkably well. 

Harry buries her face in John's shoulder as he crouches down in front of her and he sighs, glancing at Adelaide over her shoulder. "Do you mind?" 

She holds up her hand and shakes her head. "I'll be right outside when you need me," she replies. 

"Ta." His hands rub up and down his sister's back and he waits quietly, ignoring the strain of his knees, until her sobs quiet into hiccups. She pulls away, face a mess, and he grabs a tissue off a side table for her. She blows her nose and brushes a wayward piece of hair out of her face. Perhaps the extra hairspray would have been a good idea. 

“What happened?” he finally asks when she manages to meet his eye and the question nearly sends her bawling once more. 

“It was my last bender,” she manages, shaking her head as more tears fall. “Clara had said she needed space, and I didn't take it well. I was so far gone, I barely even remember it. But Mary was at the bar." She swallows and angrily swipes at the wetness on her cheeks. "She saw." 

 "Why didn't you tell me?" John asks, pulling her to him once more. 

"I was ashamed. And I didn't want you to be ashamed of me too." 

"Harry," John says, pained, resting his chin on her shoulder. "I could never be ashamed of you. Ever." He pulls away and holds her shoulders firmly. "Even if you got so drunk that you did a striptease on the alter and sang 'Jesus was a Carpenter' in the style of Johnny Cash, you're still my sister and I love you." He smiles as she laughs and the knot in his chest eases a little. "I mean, I'd take a video and threaten to release it on the internet, but you're my sister - my  _twin._  We do this together, yeah?" 

"Yeah," she replies with a slight smile - the first since Mary followed them into the room. 

John gets her another tissue and tucks the wayward piece of hair behind her ear. Luckily, Allison invested in waterproof mascara for the day, though presumably she thought the tears would be of the happy variety. 

Suddenly, a chilling realization has his hands curling into fists once more. "Did she hold it over you?" 

"What?" 

"Mary. Did she blackmail you?" 

Harry shrugs. "Enough. Never outright. But it would be a comment here. An off-the-cuff joke there. She'd suggest the bar where it happened for girls' night out. Clara would politely remind her I was a recovering alcoholic and a pub was probably not the best venue." 

John curses and stalks the length of the antechamber, running a hand through his hair. 

"I didn't want to tell you because I knew you were still pining for her and I didn't want to speak badly of someone who might very well end up to be my sister-in-law." 

John stops dead and stares at his sister. "Let me get this straight: you would have allowed this woman to be a part of your life, threatening you, because you thought she might have made me happy." 

Harry hiccups through another aborted sob and nods as John's heart just goes to pieces.

"I don't deserve you," he murmurs as he steps forward and gathers her into his arms again. "Not one bit." He presses a kiss to her hair, not caring a whit that she's crying on his morning suit. "But I swear to God, if someone pulls something like that again and you don't tell me, there will be hell to pay." 

"You're blaspheming left and right today, aren't you," she murmurs and he smiles as she pulls away again with a hopeless expression. "I've fucked it all up, haven't I." 

"You don't know that. Clara loves you. And Alec can be very persuasive when he wants to be." He tucks his finger under her chin and lifts her face. "Was what you did bad? Yeah. But you have a lot of people fighting in your corner." 

She sniffs and slides to the floor next to him so she can rest her head on his shoulder. "You're a good brother." 

"I know." 

"Well, don't be a dick about it." 

"Ah, yes," he chuckles, "there's the Harry I know and love." 

She laughs and he holds out another tissue for her. "Now what?" she asks, voice suddenly very small, and John sighs, placing a kiss on her head.

"We wait." 

xxxxxx

Sherlock’s knee is bouncing up and down with more rapidity the closer to town they get because now that he's decided that John Watson is paramount to his future happiness, Sherlock finds every minute spent without telling him so to be as tortuous as a West End matinee of  _Miss Saigon_ with Mummy.

The highway tapers off to a two-lane road and the farm lands rapidly recede, giving way to marinas and shops. Sherlock can't even roll his eyes at the quaint slogan _"The Town that Fooled the British"_ because the welcome sign means he's that's much closer to John. 

He's nearly at the church ( _This church? Or that one? There are three churches alone on this block. How many houses of the Lord does one town need? Are they that in need of a spiritual reckoning? Should have paid more attention. Stupid._ ) when a flash of something catches his eye. 

“Wait, stop. Stop.” The car slows and he watches as a woman in a white dress goes darting into the park at the end of the lane. He doubts there are too many weddings happening in the tiny town this weekend, especially considering Elliot and Olivia have rented out every room going.  “Pull over.”

The car glides to a stop and he mutters something that might be "Be right back," adding a "Thanks" for good karmic measure. He sees her in the distance, her dark hair immediately indicating which bride it is. She’s taken refuge on a swing set on the far edge overlooking the water and he slows his gait, knowing that for the moment, she isn’t going anywhere. He passes by a wooden structure shaped like a train. A couple of toddlers play obliviously while their mothers glance at the runaway bride in both curiosity and pity. When Sherlock passes by in his suit, they glare at him as if _he’s_ the reason a vital member of the wedding party has done a bunk.

He smiles at them and tries to look as harmless as possible. Their glares narrow and he picks up his pace.

He can hear her sniffle as he approaches and he purposefully steps on a twig to give her a bit of a warning. She seems lost in her own world, though. "Clara?" 

"Sherlock?" she starts, before quickly attempting to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "I thought you'd gone back to London on business." 

"I thought you were getting married this afternoon," he quietly replies as he hands her a handkerchief. She smiles up at him through watery eyes, before her features crumple entirely, sobs wracking her body. 

And Sherlock, genius that he is, is utterly at a loss because 'comforting' is not exactly his thing. “Um, there, there,” he manages, sliding onto the swing next to her and trying not to upend himself. He hasn’t been on one of these since he was five, but he tugs himself closer so he can place a hand on her bare shoulder.

“What happened, if I may ask?”

Clara inhales deeply and glances out over the water, Sherlock’s handkerchief balled tightly in her fist. “Harry cheated on me.”

Sherlock’s breath stutters in his chest. Of all of the deductions he had made about Harriet Watson, how he had somehow missed that? “That’s…” he starts, but what can one say?

“Not like her, I know. Last year. It was the drink. It’s not an excuse, but it is what it is.” She laughs bitterly and dabs at her eyes. “I had my suspicions, but we were doing so well. _Harry_ was doing so well, and it was just… better not to know.”

“How did it… come out?” he asks, empathizing (an entirely new concept) with the hurt Clara, Harry, and John must be feeling.

“Mary,” Clara replies and Sherlock goes from empathic to murderous in moments. “She can be a right bitch. Particularly when it pertains to John. Harry was just collateral damage. Well,” she focuses a sad, watery gaze on him, “you would know.”

He sucks in a breath. “Harry told you.”

“You didn’t have business in London,” she says simply. Softly.

“No. I did not.”  

She nods and returns her gaze to the bay, but holds her hand out for him to take. He does and there they sit – two people hurting and hoping in equal measure.

“Mary’s one of my oldest friends,” Clara finally says after a quiet moment. “She’s changed, though. Her first mistake was breaking up with John and it’s one she’s never recovered from. He got the short end of the stick at the time, absolutely devastated him, but now..." She squeezes his fingers, "John found you.”

“Yes,” he replies a little hoarsely, feeling ill. 

“And you found John," she says a bit more fiercely, as if he is deserving of the prize that John Watson is. "You came back to him.”

“To beg for forgiveness,” he whispers, emotion finally getting the better of him. “I said some terrible things.”

“I know,” she replies, tightening her grip on his hand again.

“Then you know that my position in John’s life is a relatively new one. And not exactly as honest and wholesome as one might think.”

“Sherlock,” she begins, chuckling slightly and catching him off guard, “from the moment you two walked in the door, I could tell that you hung the stars in each others’ skies. No amount of money can fake that.”

He sighs, and as heartening as the words are to hear, it is worrisome that his feelings on the matter are that transparent. "Am I here to be counseling you or are you counseling me? Only one of us is in a wedding dress."

"Thank God for that," she replies with her wry humor that he loves so much. She and Harry truly are a perfect pair.

He sees something out of his peripheral visions and notices Alec hovering by a nearby tree. He clearly chased after his sister, but when he found her occupied, he kept his distance. Alec may be loud and obnoxious and womanizing, but he cares fiercely and unwaveringly for the people he loves. Clara is one them, as are John and Harry. He hopes to count himself lucky enough to one day join those ranks. 

Clara leans her head against the chain of the swing and allows the breeze to gently push her. Sherlock's question, while directing the focus of the conversation off of him, has put it solely back on her and the weight of it seems more than her slim shoulders can bear.

“There’s a church full of people waiting. And particularly, a bride who’s absolutely beside herself if she’s anything like her brother.”

Clara smiles softly and sighs. “Yes.”

“Do you want to marry Harriet Watson?”

“God, yes,” she says, the words breaking on the crest of another sob, burying her face in her free hand. “So badly. I don’t think I was ever going to not marry her. I just… needed a moment. To process.”

Sherlock hums. “I should have given myself that moment last night,” he says ruefully and she tugs his arm, forcing him to look at her.  

“It’s not too late.”

“You didn’t hear what I said.”

“I didn’t need to. I saw John last night and I know that you need only say the word and all will be forgotten. I doubt you need to say anything actually. Just show up.”

"Just show up," he repeats. "That's your advice? I talk you down from some great ledge and your grand, romantic advice is 'just show up?" he teases and she tilts her head back and laughs toward the sky. Alec takes that as his cue to step a little closer.

"Sometimes that's all that's needed," she replies, letting go of his hand and standing to brush her dress off. "It's okay, Alec, I won't bite."

Her brother approaches with a sardonic smile. "You sure? I still have teeth marks in my skin from when I ripped your Barbie's head off."

"I was six."

"You had sharp teeth," he replies before holding his arms open for a hug, which she gladly sinks into. "Mr. Holmes," he greets over her shoulder and Sherlock nods.

"Mr. Collins." 

Alec smiles. "Good to have you back." 

Clara pulls away and looks up at her brother in alarm. "Oh God, what must everyone think? I was supposed to walk down the aisle half an hour ago." 

Alec throws an arm around her shoulders and turns her toward the road. "Dad's telling the guests a very well-thought out lie and Mum is doing her best not to drink the sacramental wine." 

Clara groans and Sherlock chuckles as he trails behind the siblings, already inordinately fond of Clara and Alec's parents. Clara reaches back and tugs him next to her so she can loop her arm through his elbow. 

"And Harry?" she asks after a hesitant moment and, for the first time, the grin slides from Alec's face. 

"When I left, John was taking care of her." He presses a quick kiss to Clara's head as they make it to the road almost as if to ease the blow. "She didn't look good, Clare-Bear." 

Clara nods and Sherlock can see tears in her eyes once more. He resists the urge to ask about John. 

"By the way, I'm your new Maid of Honor," Alec says, for Sherlock's sake as much as Clara's. The implication remains unsaid:

Mary is no longer welcome at the church. 

Sherlock can't help but breathe a sigh of relief at that. Clara hears it and holds his elbow just a bit tighter. 

They make their way up to Sherlock's still idling car and the driver stands dutifully by the door, waiting to open it, but Sherlock shakes his head as they approach. 

"Sir, shall I stay?" the driver asks because, though arranged by Mycroft, he's technically employed by Virgin Atlantic, sent to bring Sherlock to a flight he is certainly going to miss. 

But before Sherlock can answer, Clara is rattling off a response. "Would you mind taking his bags back to the Inn at the end of the road?" she asks. "Have the concierge hold them for Watson. They'll collect them tonight." 

The driver nods and slides smoothly into the car as Sherlock turns to Clara, eyebrow arched.

"You seem awfully sure of yourself," he says, but hope (that horrible thing) flutters in his chest.  

She smiles up at him. "I've known John for seven years. The only thing greater than his bravery is his capacity to forgive." She clears her throat. "Just ask Harry." 

Sherlock nods in the direction of the church and picks a wayward leaf out of the lace of Clara’s dress. "It would seem that John is not the only one with that particular capacity." 

"Yes, well," Clara looks down and clears her throat. "What can I say? I have a weakness for Watsons." 

Sherlock smirks. "Stay away from mine."

"Wouldn't dare poach on your territory," she assures. 

The walk back to the church is quiet and contemplative, each lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock's heart thumps just a bit harder with every step they take and by the time they reach the stone building's elegant red doors, his palms are sweaty and he's feeling remarkably faint.

What if John doesn't want him back? What if what Sherlock said was just a step too far? 

He's on the verge of panicking when Clara steps in front of him and gently takes hold of his lapels. "If I can do this," she whispers, "then so can you." 

He nods and swallows, thankful that Alec has gone ahead to open the door, leaving them to their moment. 

The vestibule is cool, a welcome respite from the early afternoon sun, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, which is a moment long enough for someone to gasp and wrap their arms around his neck in a haze of champagne and overpriced perfume. 

"I knew you'd come to your senses," Adelaide exclaims as she squeezes him tight. 

He finally gathers his wits and hugs her back, a little wrong-footed at receiving such a welcoming, particularly from a member of John's own family. He registers Clara being enveloped by Olivia somewhere to his left and Alec talking in hushed tones to the vicar. 

"Where is he?" he asks Adelaide as he pulls away and she nods in the direction of the antechamber to her right, before cupping his cheek and stepping away. He turns toward the closed door and inhales deeply. 

Clara joins his side a moment later and gently nudges him. "Together, yeah?" 

"All right," he replies, thankful that his voice contains more confidence than he actually feels. After all, Clara is the one whose marriage fate rests on the next few moments, but while a wedding might not be in Sherlock's immediate future, his happiness is just as dependent on what happens when that door opens. 

His hand gives a slight tremor as he reaches for the handle and turns it. The door lurches back with a creak revealing the Watson siblings sitting on the floor, leaning against a chair in their finery, heads resting together as if they're each the only thing holding up the other. 

Two pairs of matching blue eyes find them and Sherlock can no longer _breathe._

Harry immediately breaks down, scrambling to her feet and rushing towards Clara who meets her halfway in an embrace nearly violent in its intensity. 

Sherlock has a moment to think that Clara was right – he doesn’t need to say a word - because he barely gets out “John” before the man is striding across the room and enveloping Sherlock in the tightest hug he’s ever experienced.

“Thank God,” John murmurs, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck and threading his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. And Sherlock holds back just as fiercely, pressing his head against John's temple and closing his eyes to catalogue every detail of what it feels like to have this man back in his arms once more. 

"I'm so sorry," he finally murmurs and John shakes his head, but does not pull away. 

" _I'm_ sorry." 

"You have no need to be. You tried to explain and I didn't - " he closes his eyes again and swallows hard. "I'm not good at this." 

"I don't need you to be," John replies, leaning back enough to get a hand on Sherlock's cheek and tugging him down into a kiss that's nearly painful as teeth nip lips in an effort just to get closer. To feel something. To never let go. 

Sherlock pulls away, panting but smiling. “I’d rather fight with you than encounter a level 10 locked room murder.”

John laughs, eyes glassy, as he soothes the man's swollen lips with his thumb. “That’s, um… good?”

“Very good," Sherlock replies, pursing his lips to kiss John's finger.

A throat clears and both turn to find Clara and Harry smiling at them, arms wrapped around each other, makeup a mess. 

"Wedding back on then?" John asks cheekily and Clara glares, but holds Harry tighter. 

"It was never officially off, you git." 

Sherlock feels John's hand snake under his suit jacket and rub circles on his lower back. He tightens his grip on John's shoulder and wonders if letting go so the man can walk down the aisle will actually be a viable option. 

Only one way to find out.

"You ready for this?" he asks the room at large and John shares a glance with Harry and then Clara, before finally turning to Sherlock and staring at him with a look that would end wars. 

"Oh God, yes." 

xxxxxx

The wedding occurs 53 minutes later than it was initially supposed to, once hair, makeup, and dresses have been put to rights. 

Sherlock walks Aunt Adelaide down the aisle and she only gets in one bum pinch at the start before John is clearing his throat loudly while Harry shakes with laughter beside him as they wait their turn. Once at the altar, he tries to pay attention, truly, but his gaze keeps getting drawn back to Sherlock in the front row, sitting next to Adelaide and handing her a new tissue every four and a half minutes. 

The vows are beautiful with a few ad libs in addition to the traditional "I do." By the time they finish, there isn't a dry eye in the church. Even John, usually ever stoic, finds himself wiping a tear from his cheek as they're pronounced wife and wife. Harry and Clara kiss and a cheer erupts from the congregation. John meets Sherlock's eye and the man winks as John flushes.

It's been days, just a matter of days. He can't possibly be in love - but John knows that's exactly what this feeling is. He's in love in Sherlock Holmes. Horribly, devastatingly in love. 

They're handed champagne flutes by a waiter as they're ushered alongside the rest of the wedding party onto the flower-bedecked trolley with JUST MARRIED emblazoned on the back. Sherlock and John are crammed in the back next to the brides with Sherlock's hand on John's knee and John's on Sherlock's thigh because John has realized that he cannot be more than arm's reach away from him at any given moment. The ceremony was absolute torture. 

The drive to back to the Inn is quick, but raucous. Family and friends are laughing and cheering, but the two couples at the back are the eye of the storm. Each calm and quiet, just basking in the glory of being. Harry and Clara simply stare at each other, seemingly saying a million things without uttering a word. John watches as they celebrate through healing, and he leans his head back against Sherlock's chest as the man leans over and presses his lips to John's. He tastes like champagne and mint. He closes his eyes and turns, leaning his forehead on Sherlock's jaw, forever grateful that the man came back in time to give them this moment.

The trolley pulls up to the Inn and everyone disembarks. Harry and Clara are pulled aside for photos and John is instructed not to stray far so he can have his turn. He nods, but allows Sherlock to pull him towards a bench under a nearby shade of trees, away from prying eyes. It's the first time they've been alone since Sherlock returned and John waits as Sherlock sits before the taller man holds his hand out for John to do the same. John takes those outstretched fingers and slides his next to them. He remains standing, though, and just studies the man before him: the crease in his brow, the softness in his eyes, the firmness of his hold on John's hand. 

The words he wants to say are so close - just three words on the edge of his tongue, so near to tumbling into reality - but how can he in good-conscious put himself in such a position of vulnerability again? The fear of getting burned is still too close, still too real. John swallows the admission back and settles for tracing patterns on the middle of Sherlock's palm with his thumb. 

Sherlock inhales deeply and tugs gently, bringing John stumbling closer. He sits at Sherlock's side and just revels in the ability to do so. He thinks of the night he spent alone in that too big king-sized bed; or how Sherlock spent the night in a tiny cabin on a wooden boat in a bunk that John had taken him apart in not 24 hours ago. He swallows thickly and leans against Sherlock's chest, bringing the man's arm around his neck and over his shoulder. 

Sherlock nuzzles at his temple and ghosts his lips across John's cheek, but nothing prepares him for the words he breathes into his ear a moment later. 

"I'm in love with you." 

John stills and closes his eyes because he's not entirely sure that he didn't just hallucinate that. 

"What?" he whispers, pulling away and finally looking into Sherlock's face - a face which is radiating fear and hope in equal measure and that alone proves to John that, yes, what he heard actually happened. 

"I love you," Sherlock repeats with a bit more determination. He looks positively petrified, like he can't quite believe the words actually left his mouth either and John wonders if this is the first time he's ever admitted that to anyone. Perhaps it's the first time he's ever _felt_ that for anyone. 

And John is the lucky bastard on the receiving end. 

"I love you too," he breathes, smiling stupidly as he leans in and kisses him, placing his hand over Sherlock's absolutely thunderous heart. "I've never felt for anyone the way I feel for you." The _Not even Mary_ remains unsaid. "But don't leave me again."

"I won't." 

"When something happens, we talk it out, yeah?" 

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, which is good, because there are many things to discuss, not the least of which is the situation once they're back in London and out of this protective bubble on the Chesapeake. But they can worry about that later, because at the moment, John is in love with a man whose arms are wrapped around him and he's going to revel in this particular victory because no other has tasted so sweet. 

"John!" Harry calls, waving him over from a picturesque set-up under a trellis archway. "You're up! And bring that handsome man with you!" 

Sherlock groans and John laughs as he tugs him to standing. "No getting out of it now." 

The photos are a bit tedious, but ultimately enjoyable. The photographer is good at making people feel at ease and even Sherlock relaxes, guaranteeing a few fantastic candids that John can't wait to get his hands on. 

By the time they return to the guests, the reception is in full swing. Harry and Clara are announced as Mrs. and Mrs. Watson-Collins and forks are banged against flutes to prompt the brides to kiss. Dinners are eaten and speeches are made. John just barely manages to get through his without losing what little composure he started with. 

For the longest time, it was just John and Harry against the rest of the world, but now they've got a few more people in their corner, including the entire Collins clan. It's nice to know you can be loved so unconditionally that even a drunken indiscretion, while by no means water under the bridge, it still not enough to sink the ship. 

John swallows hard and raises his glass, smiling through his tears. "To Clara and my big sister Harry. Turns out seven minutes is a long time," he finishes with a wink as Harry mouths "I love you" in return. He blows her a kiss and sits back down next to Sherlock who quickly presses his lips to the corner of John's mouth. 

"Beautiful speech," he murmurs. 

"You've got notes, haven't you." 

Sherlock hums. "A few trims in the middle." 

John rolls his eyes. "I'll be sure to utilize them at the next wedding." 

"You won't be making speeches at the next wedding," Sherlock replies and John blames the champagne for slowing his comprehension of just what exactly Sherlock was implying. But before he can ask him to clarify, Sherlock is whispering "Dance with me" and John is following blindly as he's led out onto the floor and twirled in a perfectly executed spin. 

"Where on earth did you learn to do that?" 

"I'm required to master many skills in my trade, Dr. Watson," Sherlock replies faux-haughtily and something clenches tight in John's chest. 

"Ah," he says, features shuttering. "Yes."  _Trade._ He supposes that's one word for it. 

Sherlock seems to have realized his mistake a moment too late. He looks downright stricken as he holds John's hand tighter and presses him close against his chest as they sway to the music. 

"John, how fond are you of your bedsit?” he asks carefully after a moment and John sighs at the reminder of his rather bleak existence back in London. 

“Not very. Why?”

“Well, it appears that I am out of a job and therefore am in need of someone to split the rent with.”

"Out of a job," John repeats, pulling away, a slow smile already spreading across his face. 

"Yes. Seems it's rather lost its appeal," Sherlock replies as John swallows hard. 

“Is that so?” he breathes, giddiness making his cheeks hurt.

Sherlock hums. “Was eyeing a nice little place in Central London before I left, though. Landlady owes me a favor. Between us, we should be able to afford it.”

John leans forward and brushes his nose along Sherlock’s jaw, inhaling the scent of _home._ “And where is this hypothetical flat?”

“221B Baker St.” Sherlock rests his lips at John’s hairline, hand firm at the small of his back, as John's heart jumps to his throat. “It has two bedrooms, but I think we’ll only be needing the one.”

 

 

 

~fin~


End file.
